AN  AFFAIRS 
OfiSHONOR 


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By  WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN 


JOSEPH  VANCE 

An  intensely  human  and  humorous  novel  of 
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"  The  first  great  English  novel  that  has  appeared  in  the 
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ALICE-FOR-SHORT 

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"  If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  half  a  century 
hence,  a  quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is 
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SOMEHOW  GOOD 

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IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

A  strange  story  of  certain  marital  complica- 
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De  Morgan  at  his  very  best."— /nd«p«nd<«i. 

AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

Perhaps  the  author's  most  dramatic  novel. 
It  deals  with  the  events  that  followed  a  duel  in 
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HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW     YORK 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 


BY 


WILLIAM   DE   MORGAN 

AUTHOR  OF  "  JOSEPH  VANCE,"  "  ALICE-FOR-SHORT," 
ETC. 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1910 


COPTRIOHT,   1910, 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


JPubliahed  September,  1910 

REP.  GEN.  LIB. 

ACCESS.  NO.       ^^  OZH-0 


GIFT 


THE  aUINN  A   BOOEN   CO.  NlCSe 
RAHWAY.    N.  t. 


961 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

CHAPTER  I 

Five  o'clock  by  the  sundial  on  the  lawn,  and  the  man 
that  had  to  fight  the  duel  at  seven  was  sound  asleep  and 
dreaming.  He  was  dreaming  about  a  place  that  must 
have  been  in  existence,  of  course,  when  he  was  a  boy,  or 
how  could  it  be  there  now?  And  there  it  was,  sure 
enough,  with  the  great  marble  fountain  in  the  centre, 
and  the  yew-hedges  clipped  into  the  form  of  dancers  all 
round.  And  there  in  the  fountain-basin  were  the  huge 
fish  that  must  have  been  there  then,  human  heads  and 
all.  And  the  six  globes  of  solid  gold  on  each  angle  of  the 
hexagon  parapet  that  skirted  it  and  held  the  water  in. 
None  of  these  things  had  ever  been  brought  to  the  Hall 
in  his  time — he  was  sure  of  it. 

Then  of  a  sudden  it  dawned  upon  him  that  this  strange 
place  was  only  Pan's  Garden,  familiar  to  his  boyhood. 
But  there  was  no  such  fountain  in  those  days.  That  was 
all  new.  Nothing  was  there  then  but  a  shallow  stone 
basin  where  the  paths  crossed,  with  a  foursquare  parapet 
just  above  the  ground,  a  mere  lip-rim  of  acanthus- 
leaf,  with  a  bare  relic  of  the  God  in  the  centre,  washed 
for  ever  by  the  water-trickle  that  still  kept  a  memory  of 
the  purpose  of  its  youth.  But  how  came  he  never  to 
have  noticed  this  new  fountain?  That  was  the  oddity 
of  it.  He  did  not  trouble  about  the  human  heads  on  the 
fish. 


ivi82(5754l 


2  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOISTOE 

It  was  not  as  if  the  Box  Walk,  so  called,  that  led  to  it 
was  one  that  he  had  shunned  in  those  days.  On  the 
contrary,  the  fact  that  he  and  his  brothers  were  forbidden 
to  play  there,  in  order  that  the  box-hedges  it  took  its 
name  from  should  flourish  unspoiled,  had  always  served 
as  a  stimulus  to  close  investigation  whenever  guardian 
eyes  could  be  evaded.  He  could  recognise  every  lane 
and  alley,  every  slightest  feature,  of  the  rose-garden  it 
bisected  as  he  walked  along  it  but  now.  And  then  to 
find  in  the  very  middle  of  it,  where  he  could  remember 
nothing  but  the  moss-grown  masonry,  with  its  trace  of 
Pan,  a  change  like  this! 

If  he  were  to  see  any  of  his  people  about,  how  could  he 
ask  them  to  explain  it?  How  was  he  to  confess  his 
ignorance — ^he,  the  owner  of  Croxley  Hall  for  twenty 
years,  whose  forbears  had  owned  it  for  nigh  two-hundred  ? 
How  could  he  say  to  old  Nicholas,  if  he  were  to  see  him 
now :  "  Speak  up,  you  old  dotard,  and  tell  me  who  placed 
this  fountain  here — I  or  my  father." 

If  he  were  to  see  anyone  about  who  did  not  know  him, 
then  he  might  ask.  There  was  a  veiled  lady  walking 
towards  him  from  a  very  great  distance  off — ^walking  with 
a  limp  slowly,  slowly — as  soon  as  she  could  reach  him 
he  could  ask  her.  He  knew  no  lady  at  Croxley  who 
walked  with  a  limp.  His  mother  limped,  certainly;  but 
then  she  died  when  he  was  just  of  age,  eighteen  years  ago. 
The  lady  with  the  limp  came  on  very  slowly. 

Quite  suddenly  she  reached  him,  and  her  voice  was  his 
mother's.  It  sounded  stifled,  behind  the  veil,  but  it  was 
his  mother's. 

"  Dumb  son — dumb  son!  Try  to  speak — try  to  speak! 
Oliver— Oliver !  " 

And  then  Sir  Oliver  tried  to  find  his  voice,  but  his 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^OE  3 

teeth  jammed  close,  and  no  word  would  come.  A  fright- 
ful nightmare  horror  was  upon  him,  and  he  felt  powerless. 
But  he  raised  one  hand  with  a  great  effort,  and  caught  at 
the  veil  before  him.  He  pulled  it  aside,  and  saw  no  face ; 
but  a  sort  of  woodwork  of  intersecting  splints ;  that  could 
cause,  as  it  fell  suddenly  to  pieces,  a  jerking  laugh. 

And  then  the  man  that  had  to  fight  the  duel  at  seven 
was  awake,  cold  sweat  upon  his  brow;  but  from  his 
dream,  not  from  the  knowledge  in  his  mind  of  what 
manner  of  day  was  to  come.  And  then  a  belated  clock 
struck  five:  it  was  close  enough,  though,  on  the  heels  of 
the  sundial. 

He  left  blind  and  shutter  untouched  as  he  slipped 
secretly  away  to  find  the  clothes  he  left  overnight  in 
another  room.  If  the  woman  awoke  it  would  spoil 
all. 

He  stole  down  the  broad  staircase,  shrinking  from  the 
ground  beneath  at  every  creak;  glancing  round  and  back- 
ward, round  and  backward,  none  the  easier  in  his  mind 
that  risk  grew  less  at  every  step ;  too  full  of  manly  confi- 
dence in  victory,  of  faith  in  the  powers  of  his  own  sword- 
arm,  to  cherish  stealthy  longings  for  detection.  Small 
fear  of  a  mishap  with  that  opponent,  even  if  his  own 
cause  had  not  been  so  bad  as  to  make  the  Devil's  friend- 
ship sure :  there  was  that  Providence  at  least  that  he  could 
trust  in. 

Across  the  dry  firm  foothold  of  the  dewless  turf,  and 
through  into  the  covert.  The  mid-June  sun  had  given 
its  earliest  message  to  the  daisies  long  since,  but  no  cloud 
had  come  between  them  yet.  The  thrushes  on  the  lawn 
were  disappointed  at  the  weather,  as  they  knew  the 
worms  would  stay  below.  Was  it  true.  Sir  Oliver  found 
it  in  him  to  wonder,  that  the  thrush  can  hear  the  sound 


4'  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

of  the  worm  underground,  and  knows  from  it  where  to 
watch  for  an  unsuspicious  head  ?  The  sound  of  the  mole, 
too,  he  knows,  and  can  imitate;  and  uses  his  skill  to 
quicken  the  worm's  pace.  So  Sir  Oliver's  mother  had 
told  him  long  ago  .  .  .  Ugh! — that  intolerable  dream! 
The  very  recollection  of  it  made  the  cold  sweat  start 
from  his  brow. 

Three  horses  and  two  men  were  silent  in  the  shadow 
of  the  copper-beeches — three  horses  who  knew  nothing 
of  the  work  on  hand;  two  men  who  knew,  and  were  to 
know  more  soon.  One,  Sir  Oliver's  second,  a  tried  old 
friend,  a  good  fellow,  one  who  flinched  from  no  debauchery 
and  profligacy  that  might  add  a  lustre  of  achievement  to 
the  career  of  a  man  of  fashion  of  the  days  of  the  Restora- 
tion; a  man  of  wit  and  wits — ^who  needed  them,  indeed, 
for  lack  of  much  else  to  live  upon.  The  other  a  tried  old 
groom,  a  bad  fellow  like  his  father  before  him,  but  like 
him,  too,  with  one  redeeming  virtue — an  equivalent  one, 
perhaps — of  unchangeable  devotion  to  the  Raydons  of 
Croxley  Thorpe. 

A  seven-mile  ride  to  the  tryst,  half-way  to  her  father's 
house — for  it  is  her  father  he  is  to  cross  swords  with; 
not  husband,  lover,  brother,  merely  her  father,  half  as 
old  again  as  his  opponent.  That  is  what  makes  Sir 
Oliver  so  confident,  makes  his  foot  spring  so  lightly  to 
the  stirrup,  makes  him  exult  in  his  saddle  on  the  turf. 
For  they  choose  the  grass-land,  to  be  noiseless,  and  pass 
by  the  Mausoleum  in  the  Park. 

Croxley  Park  is  no  poor  enclosure  in  a  three-mile  ring- 
fence.  You  may  ride  through  a  clear  two  miles  of 
scattered  oak  and  beechen  covert  before  you  find  the 
Mausoleum  in  its  central  solitude.  When  you  do,  you 
may  wonder  at  its  horrible  ugliness  of  form,  but  you  will 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE  6 

forgive  it  for  its  colour  and  its  lichens.  Its  architect  was 
surely  guilty  of  a  crime  against  the  stone  his  handiwork 
kept  out  of  a  place  in  some  beautiful  building.  But  it 
is  patient,  and  will  wait  for  admiration,  which  will  come 
in  the  course  of  the  ages  that  are  needed  to  brew  an 
Antiquity. 

"  Good  for  the  Day  of  Judgment,  Eaydon! " 

"  Better  than  the  Judgment  itself,  for  some  of  them." 
And  then  they  both  laughed,  and  said  never  a  word 
more. 

But  it  cheered  them  up,  and  made  them  feel  manly,  to 
show  that  they  dared  to  blaspheme  a  little.  Because, 
remember! — light  speech  about  the  Day  of  Judgment, 
that  seems  a  small  matter  to  us,  supplied  good  impiety 
for  men  of  that  time,  who  had  had  a  Creed  flogged  into 
them  at  a  public  school. 

Sir  Oliver  credited  damnation  to  some  of  his  ancestors ; 
for  though  they  were  permitted  to  sleep  under  that  stone 
until  their  resurrection,  were  there  not  among  them 
taints  of  forbidden  heresies — errors  of  doctrine,  that 
would  be  much  more  likely  to  procure  it  for  them  than 
plain  sins,  murder,  or  cruelty,  tyranny  to  the  weak  or 
treachery  to  the  unsuspecting — far,  far  more  than  gentle- 
manly vices  that  even  their  victims  would  forget  some- 
time? But  he  rode  faster  than  before  to  pass  the 
Mausoleum,  for  his  mother  was  there — she  herself,  asleep 
in  a  leaden  coffin — and  Sir  Oliver  had  misgivings  what 
she  would  think,  if  she  were  to  awake,  about  the  errand 
that  carried  him  so  near  her. 

That  brought  him  back  his  nightmare  dream  again, 
with  the  gibberish  the  dream-thing  that  neither  was  nor 
Avas  not  his  mother  had  used,  and  left  him  as  a  legacy. 
The  words  seized  on  the  rhythm  of  his  horse's  hoofs  on 


6  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

the  turf  and  beat  monotonously  with  them.  He  could 
not  escape  them  now.  He  could  only  quicken  his  pace 
to  get  it  over.  And  then  Colonel  Mainwaring  would  have 
it  they  must  not  ride  hard:  a  little  exercise  was  well 
enough,  but  the  duellist  should  come  fresh  to  his  work. 
This  was  not  to  be  a  bloodless  duel — an  encounter  to  be 
averted  by  a  word  of  contrition,  or  arrested  by  a  formal 
satisfaction  to  offended  Honour.  It  was  a  fixture  for  a 
Murder — there  in  the  summer  woodlands,  and  all  the 
blue  of  Heaven  athrill  with  the  music  of  the  lark.  A 
fixture  for  a  Murder,  with  a  doubt  of  which  of  two  men 
should  play  the  corpse. 

The  more  reason,  so,  for  scanty  speech;  the  fewer 
words  the  better!  The  ground  was  chosen  yesterday  by 
the  seconds :  in  yonder  copse,  fifty  yards  away,  a  farmer's 
cart  is  ready  by  their  appointment  to  bear  away  what 
cannot  walk  or  sit  a  horse — what  may  never  do  either 
again.  Delay  is  only  risk  of  interruption,  and  the  two 
swords  are  of  a  length.  Strip  the  men  to  their  shirts, 
and  to  it  at  once ! 

A  village  boy,  a  youngster  of  eleven,  had  been  shrewd 
enough  to  see  that  this  cart,  starting  in  the  early  morning 
furtively,  must  portend  something  to  be  seen,  something  of 
interest  and  excitement.  Else  why  should  a  gentleman  he 
knew  to  be  no  farmer  accompany  it — the  village  surgeon 
who  had  bound  up  a  cut  hand  for  him  and  stopped  the 
blood?  He  had  followed  on,  boy-like,  always  wondering 
the  more  as  the  cart  went  farther;  had  hidden  awhile 
that  two  horsemen  should  pass  him  by;  had  seen  them 
overtake  the  cart,  and  now  slipped  up  to  the  scene  of 
action  undetected.  But  he  is  young,  and  cannot  bear 
intent  to  kill.  The  swift  glitter  of  the  crossed  swords  is 
a  terror  to  him,  and  he  stops  his  ears  that  he  may  not  hear 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE  7 

their  slicing  ring  and  sharp  metallic  click.  For  all  that, 
he  is  held  spell-bound;  and  must  see  it  through,  now. 

He  is  young,  but  he  can  see  and  understand — enough, 
at  any  rate,  to  see  that  the  older  man  is  keen  to  kill,  if 
he  may.  Keener  than  the  younger  and  shorter  man,  who 
seems  to  this  boy  to  hold  his  opponent  in  play,  keeping 
well  behind  his  own  strong  guard.  A  glorious  art,  thinks 
the  boy  through  his  terror,  that  can  make  of  a  mere 
quick-moving  point  an  impassable  steel  wall.  And  he 
watches,  still  spell-bound,  and  is  aware  that  the  older 
man,  warmer  and  warmer  to  his  work,  is  taxing  the 
swordsmanship  of  his  opponent,  albeit  he  himself  is  the 
lesser  swordsman. 

The  ringing  of  the  swords  quickens,  strengthens.  A 
strong  rally  and  a  swift !    .    .    .   What  is  that  ? 

The  sword-point  of  the  older  man,  struck  upward 
from  a  well-delivered  thrust,  has  reached  his  opponent's 
forehead,  glancing  off.  Both  seconds  have  interposed. 
Blood  is  streaming  across  his  eye  from  the  cut,  and  he 
wipes  it  impatiently  away. 

"It  is  nothing — a  bare  scratch ! ''  he  says.  But  the 
sight  of  the  blood  has  broken  the  spell  the  boy  was  under, 
and  he  goes  sick,  and  runs,  hesitating  now  and  again, 
and  half-turning  back.  Then  presently  the  swords  begin 
anew,  and  he  is  half-sorry  for  himself,  not  to  be  there  to 
see.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  will  have  a  man's  courage,  and  go 
back,  come  of  it  what  may! 

The  seconds  had  looked  at  one  another  as  the  two 
principals  held  back  with  dropped  points.  Sir  Oliver  still 
brushing  away  the  blood-drops  as  they  came. 

"  I  tell  you,  it  is  a  scratch,"  he  repeated.  "  Give  me 
a  handkerchief."  He  wound  one,  handed  to  him  by  his 
second,  round  his  head.     It  served  to  stop  the  blood  from 


8  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

reaching  his  eye,  and  left  his  sight  clear.  Then  the  other 
second  said  to  Colonel  Mainwaring :  "  Do  we  proceed  ? 
How  is  that  ?  "  And  then,  as  they  spoke  together  aside : 
"  We  have  the  technical  right  to  stop  this,  I  believe." 

"  It  is  at  least  a  moot  point,"  said  Colonel  Mainwaring. 

"  Listen  to  me,  Mainwaring,"  said  the  other.  "  If  the 
quarrel  were  some  slight  word  spoken  at  cards  or  dice — 
or  about  some  gay  wench  upon  the  town — I  should  say 
that  Honour  was  satisfied,  but   .    .    ." 

"  But  in  the  matter  of  a  man's  daughter,  you  would 
say,  of  course  it  is  different.  That  is  so.  But  there  is 
no  wish  to  withdraw,  on  my  side.  Nevertheless,  if  Mr. 
Mauleverer  is  satisfied,  I  have  no  doubt  Sir  Oliver  will 
be  content." 

"  Can  we  not  stop  it  of  our  own  right  ?  It  is  a  bad 
business."  The  speaker  left  the  impression  that  his  ovni 
co-operation  was  against  his  will. 

"  Your  man  is  the  challenger,"  said  Mainwaring.  "  If 
he  is  satisfied  ..."  He  paused,  and  walked  over  to  his 
principal,  who  was  awaiting,  with  his  sword-point 
dropped,  the  result  of  the  colloquy.  So  was  his  oppo- 
nent, whom  his  second  approached,  and  spoke  with  in  an 
undertone. 

^^  This  quarrel  is  none  of  my  provocation,  Mainwaring, 
and  you  know  it.  This  man's  daughter  is  her  own  mis- 
tress— a  free  agent.  She  has  suffered  no  wrong  at  my 
hands.  If  Mr.  Mauleverer  is  satisfied,  need  I  say  I  am  ?  " 
Did  Sir  Oliver  mean  the  other  to  overhear  his  words — 
to  attach  an  exasperating  meaning  to  them?  If  not, 
why  that  raised  voice  and  mocking  manner? 

Mauleverer's  second  had  urged  him  to  accept  what  had 
passed,  as  amends  for  the  wrong  done  him.  He  had 
wavered,  was  wavering,  before  the  earnest  pleadings  of 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE  & 

his  friend,  when  the  tone  of  Sir  Oliver  reached  him,  if  not 
his  actual  words.  Then  he  spoke  in  a  quick  undertone  to 
his  second,  who  again  approached  Colonel  Mainwaring. 

'^  Mr.  Mauleverer  will  consent  to  press  this  matter  no 
farther  now,  in  consideration  of  Sir  Oliver  Rajdon's 
temporary  disablement.  But  Sir  Oliver  will  no  doubt  be 
ready  to  meet  Mr.  Mauleverer  again  as  soon  as  it  is 
removed." 

Colonel  Mainwaring  appeared  to  consider  for  a  mo- 
ment, seeming  to  refer  to  the  many  rings  on  his  left  hand 
for  enlightenment ;  then  looked  up  and  said  curtly :  "  I 
need  not  consult  Sir  Oliver.  I  can  answer  for  it  that 
he  will  not  avail  himself  of  Mr.  Mauleverer's  indulgence." 

And  almost  before  the  signal  was  given  the  swords  had 
crossed  once  more,  and  the  encounter  was  renewed.  But 
this  time  on  other  lines.  Whatever  slight  remorse  of  con- 
science had  made  the  younger  combatant  hang  back, 
possibly  with  a  wish  to  steer  clear  of  killing  the  man  he 
had  wronged,  whose  hospitality  he  had  most  villainously 
abused — for  you  can  guess  the  story  of  it — that  was  a 
remorse  so  unstable  that  it  could  not  overlive  the  pain  of 
a  sword-scratch  on  the  forehead.  And  all  the  evil  of  a 
wicked  heart  was  in  the  half-grin  and  the  blood-smeared 
eye  and  the  set  jaw  of  Sir  Oliver  as  he  turned  again  to 
his  work  in  earnest. 

But  not  to  triumph  at  once.  E'ot  till  the  fifteen  or 
twenty  years  there  is  between  him  and  his  opponent  be- 
gins to  tell  in  his  favour.  Then,  as  he  becomes  aware  that 
the  sword  that  opposes  him  is  fainter  in  its  resolution,  that 
the  breath  comes  shorter  and  shorter  still  of  the  man 
who  wields  it,  the  growing  fierceness  of  his  own  attack 
follows  him  remorselessly  as  he  falls  back,  and  ends  the 
long  encounter  with  a  thrust. 


10  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

He  who  receives  it  is  wounded  to  death.  The  surgeon 
who  is  waiting  with  the  cart  can  do  nothing — no  surgeon 
can — to  stop  the  blood  that  is  welling  out  inside  the  shirt 
he  cuts  with  scissors  to  detach  it.  All  the  lint  the  world 
can  supply  would  be  useless  there.  But  on  no  account 
move  or  raise  him  yet. 

He  is  trying  to  speak,  and  his  second  kneels  beside  him, 
puts  his  ear  down  to  catch  the  faint  words.  "  He  asks 
to  speak  to  Sir  Oliver  Raydon,"  is  the  report.  His 
murderer  then  kneels,  and  the  words  he  stoops  down  to 
hear  are :  "  Oliver  Raydon,  I  leave  you  to  God  and  your 
conscience." 

Then  the  father  of  the  woman  who  is  sleeping  through 
it  all  is  dead;  and  the  dead  face  tells  the  bystanders  that 
this  man  was  older  than  they  thought  him.  For  the 
serenity  of  his  strength  and  confidence,  and  the  flush  of 
strong  health,  had  made  him  seem  no  unfit  opponent  for 
his  slayer.     What  will  the  woman  say? 

What  tale  can  be  told  to  the  woman?  Which  of  the 
three  who  can  tell  it  will  be  the  teller?  The  sound  of 
their  horses  on  the  turf  dies  soon,  and  now  nothing  is 
left  but  to  carry  the  dead  man  home. 

Then  the  surgeon  says  to  the  second,  under  his  breath: 
"  He  was  wounded  twice.    I  can  answer  it." 

"  Can  you  say  what  time  apart  the  wounds  were  ? "  is 
the  reply. 

"  Not  over  close  together.  The  first  would  have  bled 
slow,  but  there  was  much  blood  from  it.  He  fought  after 
he  was  wounded." 

^*  Make  me  sure  of  that."  Both  examine  the  body 
again;  and  presently,  all  being  ready,  the  cart  departs, 
with  its  burden,  and  the  two  horses  follow  some  little 
way  behind,  one  ridden,  one  riderless.     Then  the  song  of 


AN  AFFAIE  (5f  DISHONOK  11 

the  lark  and  the  cuckoo's  note  come  back  into  the  stillness^ 
and  there  is  no  other  sound?  .  .  .  Yes! — there  in  the 
bushes  the  voice  of  a  boy  crying  bitterly  for  the  horror 
vof  what  he  has  seen,  not  daring  to  go  home  for  knowledge 
of  the  thing  that  he  must  tell,  or  live  concealing. 


CHAPTEK  II 

Sir  Oliver's  horse  shied  at  the  Mausoleum,  coming 
back,  and  he  beat  the  animal  furiously — called  it  an  ac- 
cursed brute.  This  was  because  his  own  heart  shied  at 
it — flinched  from  it — had  suggested  to  him  that  he  should 
propose  another  road  back.  But  his  doing  so  would  have 
involved  an  admission  that  he  wished  to  avoid  the 
Mausoleum.  He  had  no  reason  for  wishing  to  do  so — 
not  he! 

That  being  so,  why  was  he  glad  to  get  past  it?  He 
denied  this  gladness,  to  himself,  as  soon  as  it  was  safe 
behind  him.  But  what  set  him  on  denying  it?  Why 
formulate  belief  or  disbelief  except  at  the  bidding  of 
doubt  or  fear? 

When  he  had  got,  w^ell  past  the  Mausoleum  his  mind 
changed,  and  he  began  to  feel  forgiving  towards  his  own 
mental  discomfort  about  it.  Did  not  this  discomfort, 
an  absurd  consequence  of  a  dream-hallucination,  show 
how  free  he  was  from  another  and  a  worse  one  ?  He  was 
already  on  the  watch  against  Guilt — already  brewing 
prophylactics  against  pangs  of  Conscience.  And  he  was 
convinced  his  Conscience  must  be  at  rest  when  an  un- 
reality like  that  could  supersede  it.  There,  there! — he 
was  safely  entrenched:  who  could  doubt  it?  Had  he 
never  killed  a  man  before,  that  he  should  fret  about 
anticipated  remorse  before  it  came? 

The  stable-yard  they  rode  the  horses  into,  to  minimise 
publicity,  was  walled  towards  the  garden.     Over  beyond 

12 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHON^OR  13 

that  grey  stone  roll  that  crested  its  coping  was  the  place 
of  the  dream-fountain — the  place  where  no  fountain  was 
or  had  been.  Sir  Oliver,  on  the  watch  for  a  serpent^s 
tooth  in  the  vitals  of  his  soul,  caught  himself  again  being 
glad  at  heart  that  an  idiotic  dream  should  have  power 
to  monopolize  it.  Little  need  to  fear  the  days  to  come, 
if  his  work  of  this  morning  could  give  place  to  a  thing 
like  that ! 

He  was  at  great  cost  to  prove  to  himself  that  he  was 
not  beginning  to  be  sick  at  heart. 

''  No — no ;  no  warm  water !  Fill  the  pail  at  the  pump. 
You  are  a  cursed  fool,  Rackliam!  Who  wants  the  tale- 
pyets  in  the  kitchen  to  know  .  .  .  ?  Where's  the  warm 
water  to  come  from  ? — answer  me  that !  "  Rackham  the 
groom  had  seen  thus  far,  that  his  master  would  not  care 
to  take  his  blood-patched  forehead  into  the  house  un- 
washed, but  not  far  enough  to  be  beforehand  with  a  rea- 
son why  he  should  ask  the  housekeeper  for  warm  water. 
He  provided  the  pail,  and  stood  by  immovably  while 
Colonel  Mainwaring  carefully  detached  the  clotted  hand- 
kerchief and  helped  Sir  Oliver  in  his  washing. 

Mr.  Rackham  did  all  things  immovably.  The  immo- 
bility of  his  close-shaved  jaw  gave  a  keynote  to  the  conduct 
of  his  life,  and  sanctioned  the  presence  of  a  reptile's  eyes 
in  a  human  head,  from  the  Devil's  point  of  view.  These 
eyes  were  much  of  a  colour  with  the  greyest  of  the  beard- 
crop's  cleaned-off  soil,  and  made  his  head  a  monochrome 
throughout,  or  very  near  it.  But  they  had  just  ex- 
pression enough  in  them  to  say,  "  Say  nothing!  "  to  an 
observant  stable-boy  who  led  away  the  horses  with  him, 
each  leading  one,  and  leaving  Colonel  Mainwaring's — 
expression  enough,  too,  to  make  Sir  Oliver  feel  he  could 
entrust  his  sword  to  him,  with  his  murder  fresh  on  it,  to 


14  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

smuggle  away  out  of  Lucinda's  sight.  It  would  not  do 
to  carry  it  indoors  now.  And  yet,  in  days  like  these, 
few  would  have  ridden  out  unarmed. 

The  two  men  left  alone  spoke  together,  little  above  a 
whisper — Sir  Oliver  morosely,  his  friend  equably.  He 
had  done  his  duty  as  a  friend,  you  see,  and  now  the  time 
was  near  for  him  to  wash  off  the  blood  from  his  memory, 
as  he  was  already  cleaning  away  the  finger-taint  in  a 
fresh  pail  of  water.  The  slight  wound  had  stopped 
bleeding — showed  for  little. 

'^  She  must  be  told,  I  suppose,''  Sir  Oliver  muttered 
grudgingly. 

^^  How  can  it  be  kept  from  her  ? ''  The  speaker's  voice 
said  plainly :  "  I  have  done  my  part  now.  That  is  your 
affair." 

But  the  murderer  had  no  stomach  for  speech  with  his 
victim's  daughter.  Could  he  not  devolve  that  work  on 
his  friend  ?  His  view  of  the  obligations  of  friendship 
were  those  we  hold,  all  of  us,  when  we  stand  to  win  by  a 
liberal  interpretation  of  them. 

^^  Look  at  this,  Mainwaring!  This  Lucinda  has  to  be 
told — it  cannot  be  avoided.  Think  how  much  more  easily 
you  can  tell  her  than  I !  " 

^'  Warily  ho.  Sir  Oliver !  Where  do  you  find  it 
part  of  your  second's  duty  to  go  to  confession  on  your 
behalf?  Put  a  good  face  on  it,  man!  Speak  for  your- 
self." 

"  Mainwaring ! — I  thought  you  a  better  friend  than 
that.  What  would  you  have  me  say  to  her? — think 
of  it !  " 

"  Faith ! — I  know  nothing  of  what  may  be  to  be  said, 
in  a  like  plight.  All  I  know  is,  it's  none  of  mine  to  say 
it.     The  girl  is  no  mistress  of  mine.     Tell  her  yourself. 


AN  AFFAIE  OE  DISHONOR  15 

You  have  made  your  bed — you  may  even  lie  on  it.  Fare 
you  well,  and  good  luck ! '' 

"  No,  Mainwaring,  stop !  What  can  I  say  to  her  ?...,* 
Tell  her  the  truth! — ^yes,  but  how?  It's  a  harder  task 
than  you  think." 

"  Wrong  again,  Sir  Oliver  Raydon !  I  count  it  about 
as  hard  a  task  as  a  man  meets  in  a  lifetime.  But  the 
quarrel  was  your  quarrel;  none  of  mine.  And  the  girl 
is  your  girl;  none  of  mine.  And  the  sword  is  none  of 
mine  that  made  such  a  brisk  end  of  the  matter  but  now. 
I  have  seen  you  through  to  the  edge  of  my  undertaking. 
And  in  truth — listen  to  me,  Raydon! — I  should  make  a 
sorry  business  at  the  best  of  this  telling  of  a  tale  in  the 
teeth  of  its  welcome.  Get  you  to  it,  and  get  you  through 
it,  the  best  you  may.  Say  your  worst  of  the  old  dog's 
obstinacy.  I  couldn't  but  admire  him,  too.  It  may  be 
you  will  absolve  yourself  better  than  I  could  do  it 
for  you.'' 

"  You  cannot  blame  me !  "  Sir  Oliver's  speech  had  a 
touch  of  resentment,  or  at  least  of  suspicion  of  something 
he  might  resent. 

"  Blame  you  ?  Not  I,  man !  How  should  I  blame 
you?  Every  man  has  a  right  to  his  chances  in  love, 
and  every  woman  knows  her  own  pleasure  best.  This 
girl  of  yours  must  answer  her  share  of  the  blame.  But 
the  old  fellow  was  in  the  right  of  it — an  old  game-cock! 
He  could  but  eat  the  meal  you  and  his  daughter  dished 
up  for  him.  We'll  drink  to  his  memory  when  this  has 
blown  over.  Tell  her  the  best  you  may;  and  then  get 
away  somewhere  abroad,  and  keep  away  till  old  Ralph's 
forgotten.  Take  her  with  you — that's  my  advice. 
Farewell ! " 

Sir  Oliver  said  nothing  in  reply.    He  waited  in  sullen 


16  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

silence  till  the  sound  of  the  horses'  hoofs  died  in  the 
distance,  then  gathered  his  hat  and  gloves  and  whip 
from  where  he  had  laid  them  while  washing.  The  im- 
movable groom  came  back,  obsequious.  His  master 
handed  him  the  gloves  and  whip,  and  asked,  as  he  stood 
stroking  a  gentle  finger  over  his  cut  forehead,  "  Is  that 
door  open  ?  "  It  was  a  door  that  would  have  led  through 
to  the  dream-fountain,  had  he  still  been  dreaming.  If 
only  it  could  be  there,  and  reaffirm  the  dream-world !  No 
harm  in  walking  through  to  see. 

The  door  was  locked,  but  the  key  hung  near  by.  It 
had  been  kept  locked,  Mr.  Rackham  testified,  since  her 
late  ladyship — Sir  Oliver's  mother — ^had  ordered  it,  so 
that  no  one  should  pass  between  the  garden  and  the 
stables.  But  it  had  been  kept  oiled,  not  to  spoil  with 
the  damp.  Sir  Oliver  had  forgotten  the  existence  of  this 
door:  was  there  a  faint  hope  in  that,  that  he  was  stiU 
dreaming?  But  when  the  groom  opened  it,  with  a  bit 
of  a  strain  on  the  key,  there  was  no  fountain  in  sight. 
Sir  Oliver  passed  through  into  the  garden,  and  the  door 
closed  behind  him. 

The  June  sun  was  getting  well  into  stride  in  the 
heavens,  and  the  roses  were  enjoying  it.  The  heat  was  not 
overpowering  yet,  but  meant  to  be,  even  if  those  great 
white  clouds  came  to  the  rescue.  But  it  was  not  the  heat 
that  parched  his  tongue,  and  made  his  lips  restless,  and 
his  eyes  burn,  heavy  in  their  sockets;  nor  was  the  throb- 
bing in  his  head  caused  by  that  slight  cut.  The  pain  of 
that  was  a  little  thing  apart,  that  he  could  separate  and 
make  light  of.  He  tried  to  think  that  nightmare  dream 
was  answerable.  Why,  see  how  it  clung  about  him,  even 
now!  Even  now  he  could  recall  distinctly  the  human- 
headed  fish,  and  on  the  most  conspicuous  one  of  all  the 


AN^  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  17 

head  of  John  Rackham  the  groom;  quite  one  colour  all 
over  under  water,  eyes  and  all!  And  see  how  the  mere 
meaningless  jargon  of  the  dream-image  caught  and  clung 
about  him,  finding  a  shuddering  application  to  some 
passing  thing.  It  was  going,  he  felt  certain,  to  claim  for 
itself  the  dumbness  he  knew  he  should  feel,  the  padlock 
he  knew  would  be  on  his  tongue,  should  he  try  to  speak 
to  his  woman-victim  of  her  father^s  death.  But  it  was 
the  dream  that  would  paralyse  him,  not  the  end  of  the 
sword-encounter  to  which  he  was  not  the  challenger. 

His  manhood  would  come  back  to  him  in  time;  but 
his  cowardice  was  on  him  now,  with  a  vengeance.  Else 
why  continue  this  incessant  reasoning  with  himself? 
Better  stop  it  at  once!  Why  beat  about  the  bush  to 
prove  what  everyone  already  knew?  Death  in  duels 
must  come  about,  now  and  again,  unless  duels  should  be 
abolished  altogether — a  thing  inconceivable!  And  as 
for  the  provocation  he  had  given — what  foul  play  had 
he  been  guilty  of  ?  The  girl  was  eighteen,  and  old  enough 
to  know  better,  as  the  phrase  goes.  How  had  his  con- 
duct been  unlike  that  of  any  other  man  of  fashion  and 
spirit?  Could  not  the  wench  keep  her  eyes  to  her- 
self?  .    .    . 

Oh  no! — she  meant  it,  all  along.  Innocent — inex- 
perienced girl  indeed!  Innocent  parent,  rather!  Little 
knows  Father  Stay-at-home  how  much  his  country- 
lass  may  learn  of  Life  in  a  couple  of  seasons  of  town ! 
Besides,  who  could  say  his  suit  would  not  have  been 
en  tout  hien,  tout  honneur,  if  it  had  not  been  for  his 
wife — curse  her! — ?  How  could  anyone — how  could  he 
himself  know  what  his  course  w^ould  have  been  had  an 
honourable  one  been  open  to  him  ?  At  least — do  him  this 
but  justice! — he  had  honourably  promised  this  Lucinda 


as  'AX  AEFAIK  OF  DISHOl^OK 

to  make  her  his  wife,  if  he  could  rid  himself  of  his  other 
encumbrance.  He  appealed  to  an  imaginary  court  of 
Love  and  Honour  with  a  confidence  that  his  powers  of 
imagination  could  keep  it  ignorant  that  he  never  meant 
this  promise  when  he  made  it;  and  his  confidence  was 
misplaced,  as  it  turned  out.  He  had  to  avert  summary 
justice — by  repeating  his  pledge,  and  really  meaning  it, 
this  time!  He  meant  it,  now;  and  could  mean  it  with 
perfect  safety,  as  he  knew  well  that  that  other  encum- 
brance would  give  him  no  chance  to  fling  her  off. 

See  now!  A  moment  ago  he  resolved  to  put  all  this 
cowardice  aside.  And  here  it  was  back  again !  Patience, 
patience!  It  was  all  too  recent  for  him  to  make  an  end 
of  it  yet  awhile.  But  a  time  would  come  for  forgetting. 
Was  that  Lucinda  on  the  terrace — ^^vhere  his  mother  used 
to  limp  up  and  down  in  old  days  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  curse  that 
dream!   .    .    . 

I^ever  mind  the  dream — ^have  done  with  it !   .    .    . 

Yes ! — that  was  Lucinda.  Lucinda  in  the  lightest  robe 
an  anticipated  hot  day  dictates — ^muslin  or  fine  lawn  at 
the  heaviest.  She  was  leaning  on  the  stone  balustrade 
skirting  the  steps  from  the  upper  terrace,  disappointing 
with  her  fan  the  sun-glare  that  had  found  its  way  through 
a  flowering  arbutus  to  kiss  her,  gazing  along  the  broad 
walk  Sir  Oliver  had  just  passed  over.  A  few  minutes 
sooner,  and  she  would  have  crossed  his  path.  He  was 
glad  she  had  not.  Anything  was  better  than  to  meet  her 
unprepared. 

As  she  stood  there  watching  for  him,  and  he  knew  what 
her  great  black  eyes  would  have  looked  like  had  he  met 
her,  what  her  soft  hand  would  have  felt  like  in  his  own, 
her  soft  lips  upon  his  cheek,  he  said  to  himself  that  this 
girl  was  worthy  to  be  loved,  if  ever  woman  was.    He  did 


a:n"  affaik  of  DisHo:^roE  19 

not  add,  "  Worthy  of  the  other  sort  of  Love,  as  well  as 
mine,"  because  he  knew  nothing  of  that  variety — only 
his  own.  'Not  an  hour  had  he  passed  with  her  without 
taking  in  vain  the  sacred  name  of  Love — a  Divinity  whose 
groves  had  no  path  for  such  as  he,  whose  shrine  he  had 
never  seen.  But  the  word  on  his  lips  had  not  chimed  true 
with  the  sound  in  her  ears.  And  yet  neither  knew  it! 
Each  kept  a  flavour  for  the  word  apart,  and  neither 
tasted  from  the  other's  dish.  Do  not  peer  into  the  unholy 
caverns  of  his  mind — dwell  in  the  garden  of  hers,  wild 
and  disorderly  perhaps,  but  still  a  garden. 

He  wondered  at  himself  that  he  should  be  so  solicitous 
to  delay  speech  with  her,  if  only  for  a  minute — for  a  sec- 
ond! He  actually  walked  along  the  skirting  turf  of  the 
flower-bed,  to  be  noiseless,  that  those  eyes  should  remain 
turned  from  him  as  long  as  possible.  Yet  to  how  little 
purpose !     The  time  must  come. 

Her  laugh  rang  musically  loud  in  the  morning  air, 
when  she  turned  and  saw  him.  It  came  like  a  burst  of 
rejoicing  out  of  place  in  a  plague-stricken  city.  But  it 
forced  a  laugh  from  him  that  nearly  choked  him,  as  she 
came  floating — or  falling,  as  you  choose — into  his  arms, 
and  his  embrace  saved  her  a  fall  on  the  gravel. 

"^O  sweet  Oliver! — O  brave  Oliver! — leave  me  not 
behind  thee.'  .  .  .  Why  so  glum.  Sir  Oliver  ?  ^  Why  so 
pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? '  "  .  .  .  But  she  stopped 
short  in  her  reminiscences  from  Shakespeare  and  Suck- 
ling as  she  saw  the  forehead-cut.  For  she  had  raised  as 
she  kissed  him  the  hat  he  had  slouched  forward  to  hide  it. 

'^  Silly  beauty !  Just  a  scratch,  skin-deep.  A  strip  of 
surgeon's  plaister,  and  all  will  be  well."  But  he  had  to 
speak  the  lie  he  had  arranged  for  it,  in  case  his  cou'rage 
should  fail  him.     "  Your  macaw  did  me  that  good  turn, 


20  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

half  an  hour  since,  in  the  greenhouse.  I  had  some  ado  to 
get  him  clear  of  my  head.  .  .  .  No,  not  his  beak;  his 
claw,  as  I  dragged  him  off."  And  then  he  felt  he  had 
made  matters  worse.  Almost  better  to  have  told  a  less 
clever  lie,  that  she  might  have  suspected,  and  pressed  him 
to  confession.  So  he  who  dares  not  draw  his  own  tooth 
is  almost  glad  of  the  dentist's  pincers. 

"  The  darling ! — what  had  you  done  to  provoke  him  ? 
As  if  my  precious  bird — ^my  dearest  bird — ^would  scratch 
except  he  was  provoked !  Stupid  Sir  Oliver !  "  But  she 
kissed  him  again  on  what  bad  been  the  grin  of  his  resolve 
to  slay  her  father,  scarce  two  hours  ago.  O  the  torture  of 
living,  in  the  face  of  her  ignorance  of  it  all ! 

But  he  was  in  for  a  term  of  lying  pretexts  now,  and  he 
would  have  done  better  to  have  said  at  once,  "  I  am  your 
father's  murderer;  but  it  is  by  no  fault  of  mine  that  his 
blood  is  on  my  head." 

He  could  have  thrown  himself  on  her  mercy,  to  take 
pity  on  his  remorse,  and  share  it.  He  tried  to  speak,  even 
now,  to  put  an  end  to  the  gaiety  of  her  utter  ignorance, 
that  was  harder  to  him  to  bear  than  the  worst  reproach. 
And  even  harder  than  that,  the  tender  solicitude  for  his 
injured  brow.  How  could  he  repulse  her  mock-imperious 
command  to  him  to  come  under  the  hands  of  the  surgeon ; 
her  gentle,  and  indeed  dexterous,  handling  of  the  slight 
wound  he  could  easily  have  ignored ;  her  mock  censure  of 
his  molestation  of  her  darling  bird — how  without  self- 
betrayal  ?  He  had  no  heart  to  feign  a  light,  jesting 
mood  to  answer  hers.  His  safest  course  would  be  to  let 
his  best  attempt  towards  a  genial  one  pass  for  a  churlish- 
ness just  a  shade  beyond  his  morning's  wont.  For  it  was 
a  common  speech  enough  with  her  that  his  sulky  lord- 
ship must  needs  break  his  fast  before  he  could  find  a  civil 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  21 

word  to  speak.  And  last  night  more  wine  than  usual  had 
gone  to  nourish  his  moroseness  of  the  day  to  come. 

"  Where  did  you  ride  so  fast  this  morning,  Oliver 
mine  ? "  said  she,  as  she  attended  to  his  wound.  They 
had  passed  into  the  house,  and  were  in  the  room  that 
opened  on  the  terrace,  when  she  asked  this  question. 

"  How  came  you  to  know  I  rode  at  all  ?  '^  She  had  had 
to  wait  for  his  answer,  but  he  did  not  wait  for  hers.  "  By 
the  Long  Park  to  the  Swan's  Mead,  along  by  King's 
Theydon  and  Russet  Cross.  There  is  hay  to  cut  still  in 
the  Abbey  meadows."  This  was  true,  of  a  sort.  But 
had  it  not  been  for  that  ugly  dream,  he  would  have 
said :  "  Beyond  the  Mausoleum,"  not  "  By  the  Long 
Park." 

Her  answer  came  to  his  question,  rather  in  the  rear  of 
the  argument :  "  I  felt  you  go,  in  my  sleep,  and  was  not 
of  a  mind  to  wake  up  to  stop  you.  Then  the  tread  of  the 
horses  on  tho  turf  beat  into  my  dreams.  Are  you  not 
hungry  ?  " 

"  Hungry  enough.  A  ride  betimes  whets  the  appe- 
tite. .  .  .  Breakfast  on  the  cedar-lawn?  .  .  .  Yes, 
that  was  well  thought  of."  He  had  risen  to  his  feet  when 
she  had  finished  placing  the  plaister  on  the  cut,  and,  look- 
ing at  himself  in  a  mirror  to  see  it,  had  caught  also  a 
reflection  of  the  lawn  beyond  the  terrace,  and  the  serv- 
ants laying  a  table  beneath  the  trees.  He  had  no  appe- 
tite for  breakfast,  but  he  must  affect  one.  It  might  be 
easier  to  eat  than  he  fancied,  when  it  came  to  trying. 

Yes — food  was  not  amiss  after  an  effort  or  two.  But 
he  was  farther  than  ever  from  daring  to  thrust  the  horror 
in  his  heart  into  the  unsuspicious  life  of  the  girl;  while 
she,  for  her  part,  guessing  some  disquiet  in  him,  strove  to 
allay  it  more  and  more  with  mirth  and  sweet  speech. 


22  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIN^OR 

N^ever  had  she  been  more  charming:  how  she  would  have 
lasted!  O  that  he  had  not  been  Cain,  to  enjoy  this  fair 
fruit  that  he  had  plucked!  He  cursed  his  petulance  and 
want  of  self-discipline.  Could  he  not  have  had  the  sense 
to  see  where  prudence  lay  ? — a  slight  wound  for  the  nonce ; 
or  even  a  bad  one  and  a  long  nursing,  but  never  this  in- 
exorable, overmastering  Death,  that  comes  to  all  and  comes 
to  stay — that  has  his  way  with  what  was  once  a  man.  But 
he  had  tried — ^yes,  he  had  tried — to  disarm  his  opponent ; 
yet  the  old  fellow's  sword-hand  was  too  strong  for  that! 
Think  of  it,  had  he  only  had  this  much  to  tell,  that  a  bout 
of  sword-play  had  been  fought  on  fair  ground,  and  a  swift 
turn  of  his  point  had  left  her  father  at  his  mercy — to  be 
generously  spared!  His  magnanimity,  that  would  have 
been,  quickened  in  his  brain;  gave  him  a  moment's  half- 
ease,  and  was  dismissed,  leaving  him  poorer  than  before, 
as  he  sickened  at  its  falsehood. 

Had  he  ridden  in  view  of  the  Old  Hall  ?  She  went  back 
to  her  questioning,  after  he  and  she  had  eaten,  there  on 
the  lawn  below  the  cedar-trees.  The  Old  Hall  was  her 
father's  house,  his  birthplace  and  hers.  Only  a  year  ago 
she  was  little  more  than  a  schoolgirl  there;  knowing 
nothing,  all  the  world  before  her.  What  was  she  now  ? — • 
answer  that!  What  a  knowledge  had  come  to  be  hers, 
in  that  short  twelvemonth ! 

"  I  was  dreaming  of  them  all,  last  night,  Oliver  mine ! — • 
all  the  living  and  the  dead  mixed  together;  just  dream 
stuff!  There  was  my  sister  you  never  saw — Amy.  She 
was  Aminta,  you  know,  but  she  would  be  vexed  at  heart 
if  one  should  call  her  Minty — she  never  could  abide  the 
name.  So  she  was  Amy  to  all  of  us.  O  but  she  was 
beautiful !  If  you  had  seen  her,  Oliver,  you  would  never 
have  had  a  thought  for  me."    She  was  on  the  grass  at  his 


AI^  AFFAIE  O'F  DISHONOK  23 

feet — it  was  green  under  that  cedar-tree,  not  its  fellow — 
and  the  growing  heat  made  her  use  her  fan.  He  was 
smoking  the  tobacco  that  was  getting  so  common  now; 
grown  in  Virginia,  where  her  brother  was.  His  pipe  was 
just  a  little  pear-shaped  bowl  all  but  in  a  line  with  its 
stem.  And  it  held  but  a  thimbleful;  but  this  was  right, 
for  the  weed  was  still  costly.  She  flicked  away  the  smoke 
with  her  fan,  as  it  floated  towards  her. 

"  Never  a  thought  for  Lucinda — ^never  a  thought  for  the 
Queen  of  Love!  A  rare  rival  in  truth!  But  my  Lu- 
cinda's  praise  of  her  sister's  beauty  is  but  faint  at  the 
best.  What  are  the  bluest  eyes  that  ever  shone,  to  match 
Lucinda's  ?  How  shall  a  golden  head  compare  with  locks 
like  these  ?  '^  His  speech  dragged ;  there  was  no  en- 
thusiasm in  it.  The  girl  would  often  have  exchanged 
high-flown  compliments  for  words  of  Love — of  the  sort 
of  Love  she  had  to  give,  a  better  sort  than  his.  But  this 
morning  surely  she  found  it  rather  harder  than  she  had 
ever  yet  confessed  it  to  herself  to  be,  to  shut  her  eyes  to 
an  assumption  that  hurt  her,  that  assurance  of  her  beauty 
was  the  prize  her  life  aimed  at,  rather  than  a  nestling- 
place  in  another's  heart.  The  truth  was  the  reverse  of 
what  she  thought : — never  had  he  gone  so  near  loving  her 
as  tO'day.  It  was  sheer  mechanical  stress  of  some 
padlock  on  his  voice  that  told  on  his  effort  to  speak,  and 
made  an  ill  sound  for  it  in  his  own  ears.  But  whatever 
misgivings  it  gave  her,  she  hid  it  well.  Her  laugh  rang 
out;  and  the  macaw,  in  his  house  beyond  the  lawn,  heard 
it  and  shrieked  in  answer. 

"  But  you  never  saw  her,  Oliver  mine,  you  never  saw 
her.  Even  the  bird  is  laughing  at  you,  sweetheart! 
Leave  your  silly  tropes,  and  answer  my  question: — How 
near  did  you  ride  to  the  Old  Hall  ? " 


24  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

"  No  nearer  than  to  see  naught  of  it ;  and  yet,  as 
near  as  my  liking  carried  me.  A  man  would  have  the 
eyes  of  a  windhover  to  see  the  Old  Hall  from  Russet 
Cross,  let  alone  that  he  would  have  to  see  through  the 
Hanger  Hill  and  Lea  Down.  Where  is  thy  memory, 
lass?'' 

"  Oh,  but  my  memory's  good,  Oliver  mine,  for  all  the 
way  'twixt  this  and  my  father's  home.  Should  I  forget, 
think  you?  Why,  I  can  see  it  all  now,  and  never  move 
from  where  I  sit!  On  beyond  the  Abbey  Meadows,  just 
a  mile,  and  there  is  Ashen  Mow  and  Blean  Carn,  and  then 
the  long  road  through  the  wood  to  Lea  Down.  And  the 
Old  Hall,  and  the  dear  old  father  there  among  his 
guests."  .  .  .  She  paused,  warned  by  a  sob,  climbing 
in  her  throat,  of  the  danger  of  going  on.  Sir  Oliver  would 
be  impatient  with  her  if  she  cried.  But  she  had  only  just 
swallowed  that  sob  in  time.  After  all,  where  would  she 
be  if  this  man  tired  of  her  ?  Where  and  what  ?  But  oh, 
what  a  base  thought  to  think  of  him !  To  begin  to  doubt 
him  thus  soon,  in  the  face  of  all  his  pledges ! 

And  what  about  him,  as  he  thought  to  himself — he  had 
to! — ^that  her  father's  guests  would  look  for  their  host 
in  vain,  would  listen  in  vain  for  his  welcome  to  the  home 
he  knew  so  well  how  to  make  theirs  ?  What  could  he  say 
to  her  now  if,  when  he  tried  to  open  those  dry  hot  lips, 
he  found  he  could  speak?  He  could  not  say  now,  as  he 
had  said  twenty  times  before,  "  Go  back  home,  Lucinda — 
the  choice  is  open  to  you — go  back  home !  "  He  could 
speak  neither  the  thought  in  his  mind,  nor  the  speech 
that  had  served  his  turn  once  and  again,  before  this.  He 
tried  to  get  his  teeth  apart  for  a  yawning  protest  against 
serious  talk  so  early  in  the  morning,  but  failed.  It  would 
have  in  the  end  to  come  to  a  choice  between  silence  and 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  25 

the  telling  of  what  she  must  know  later,  somehow.  For 
now,  silence  was  best.  He  would  not  acknowledge  that 
speech  was  impossible  to  him,  but  made  believe  that  si- 
lence was  his  free  choice. 

She  could  not  understand  his  suUenness;  how  should 
she?  But  she  must  cheer  him  up — bring  a  smile  to  his 
set  face,  somehow!  What  did  he  think  was  her  dream 
about  Amy?  She  had  dreamed  that  Amy  was  married 
to  the  hangman,  and  had  twins.  He  managed  a  stinted 
smile,  and  a  hope  that  the  twins  were  doing  well,  in  the 
dream.  But  he  hated  the  very  name  of  a  dream.  There 
was  hideous  latitude,  in  dream-analogies,  for  Heaven 
knows  what  combinations  and  surprises. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  Amy  had  called  the 
twins  ?  "  Sir  Oliver  shook  his  head  with  a  sickly  smile. 
He  feaxed  an  ambush  of  something  unpleasant.  "  Mack- 
erel and  Murder!  "  laughed  Lucinda,  merry  at  the  ab- 
surdity. But  so  sore  was  he  that  the  mere  name  of  a 
fish,  chaotic  and  meaningless  as  was  its  context,  gave  him 
a  shudder.  Were  there  not  fish  in  his  own  damnable 
nightmare  of  the  morning? 

His  gloom  grew,  and  she  saw  it.  She  must  make  an 
effort  to  penetrate  it,  or  disperse  it;  no  matter  which. 
She  moved  closer  to  him,  crept  up  quite  close  as  he  sat, 
his  back  against  the  tree-trunk.  Her  white  arm  went 
round  his  neck;  surely  there  should  have  been  more 
sense  of  a  response  in  it — ^not  a  movement  to  her,  she  did 
not  ask  that — only  another  and  less  stony  sort  of  still- 
ness.   Was  he  angry  with  her  ? 

^'  Shall  I  tell  you,  Oliver  mine,  what  I  am  half-minded 
to  do?  Yes,  I  will — ^yes,  I  will!  I  am  half-minded  to 
take  my  father  at  his  word,  and  go  to  him  this  day — this 
very  day.     Did  he  not  say  come  back  and  he  would  for- 


26  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

give  me,  were  my  sin  thrice  as  black?  Did  he  not  say 
he  cared  never  a  straw  for  the  words  of  women  who  made 
believe  to  saint,  each  with  a  lover  if  the  truth  came  out? 
Did  he  not  say  he  would  face  them  all  down  for  me ;  and 
as  for  the  men,  them  he  knew  how  to  deal  with  ?  "  .  .  . 
Sir  Oliver  choked  a  little  towards  speech  in  his  dry  throat, 
but  she  ran  on  before  he  could  command  a  word.  "  No — 
no,  my  dearest,  my  prize  among  men,  my  very  life!  I 
would  not  leave  you,  Oliver,  though  the  returning  of 
to-morrow's  dawn  hung  upon  it.  My  faith  to  you  is  thrice 
the  pledge  of  a  bonded  faith;  for,  could  I  not  break  it 
and  go  scatheless?  Who  would  not  dare  before  Heaven 
to  break  the  pledge  he  had  backed  with  gold  or  land, 
knowing  his  loss  would  pay  the  cost  V  ,  ,  .  She  paused 
a  second  as  he  tried  to  speak,  but  the  question  that  had 
stopped  her  was  little  more  than  the  word  ''  What  ...?'' 
She  caught  his  meaning,  and  saved  him  the  completion 
of  it. 

"  What  should  I  say,  should  my  father  urge  me  to 
turn  from  my  wickedness,  and  repent?  I  should  say, 
^  A  poor  amend  indeed  for  a  sin  sinned  past  all  recall,  to 
break  my  word  to  my  love,  and  leave  him  to  battle  with 
his  conscience  alone ! '  And  then  I  would  ask  him  what 
thought  would  he  have  of  you,  dear  love,  if  you  forsook 
me  to  become  a  monk,  and  make  good  terms  in  time  with 
Heaven?  Yes! — I  would  say  to  him  that  I  would 
expiate  with  you  the  wrong  we  have  done  Heaven  to- 
gether, not  seek  its  favour  by  a  breach  of  faith  towards 
my  love — my  love  I  love  better  than  Heaven  or  Earth. 
And  I  would  make  him  say  in  the  end  that  I  was  right, 
for  all  he  would  talk,  as  he  surely  would,  of  my  perverted 
sense  of  Honour.  Better,  to  my  thought,  to  be  true  to  a 
perverted  sense  of  Honour  of  one's  own  fashioning  than 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIs^OE  27 

to  affect  a  loyalty  one  felt  not  to  some  wiseacre's  law  with 
no  heart  in  it !  '' 

Still,  never  a  word  from  the  man!  Yet  his  having 
once  or  twice  seemed  to  begin  speech,  and  seemed  to  be 
interrupted  in  it,  left  a  false  sense  of  his  having  spoken. 
No  impression  was  conveyed  that  he  felt,  as  he  truly  did, 
quite  dumb.  How  he  wished  now  he  had  overleapt  his 
barrier  at  once,  not  waited  for  his  task  to  grow  worse! 
Or  why  not  have  written  her  a  letter,  and  left  her  to  break 
the  neck  of  grief  alone  ?  She  was  absolutely,  to  his  think' 
ing,  in  his  power; — how  could  she  choose  but  acquiesce 
in  what  had  happened?  It  was  perhaps  the  only  spot  in 
his  soul  where  a  seed  of  good  could  strike  or  grow,  the 
one  that  felt  a  sort  of  pang  at  the  idea  of  her  hating  her 
father's  murderer;  and  the  thought  was  pleasant  to  him 
that  she  could  have  no  choice  but  to  conceal  that  hatred : — 
if  she  did  it  thoroughly  enough,  that  would  do  for  him. 
It  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a  redeeming  feeling.  Oth- 
erwise, he  was  morally  on  a  par  with  the  foulest  human 
vermin  that  ever  cursed  God's  earth.  None  the  less  that, 
moral  coward  as  he  was,  he  could  be  physically  brave  at 
a  pinch;  that  is  to  say,  as  long  as  he  felt  secure  of 
victory. 

Even  now,  speechless  as  he  was — ^hopeless  as  it  seemed 
that  he  should  ever  get  his  tale  told — he  was  longing  at 
heart  for  the  time  when  the  first  shock  should  be  over,  and 
he  should  be  consoled  by  the  sound  of  his  own  voice 
telling  extenuating  lies.  How  he  would  dwell  on  the 
exasperation  of  that  slight  cut,  on  his  forbearance  till  he 
felt  his  own  blood  warm  upon  his  forehead,  and  caught 
its  scarlet  in  the  eye  it  blinded!  He  framed  his  speech 
that  was  to  tell  the  tragedy  of  the  morning,  but  never 
dared  to  utter  its  first  word.     It  would  have  been  easier 


28  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

for  him  if  news  had  come  to  her  that  her  father  was 
slain  in  a  duel,  to  say,  "  This  is  the  hand  that  slew  him," 
than  to  write  the  fact  of  his  death  on  the  blank  sheet  of 
an  unsuspecting  mind. 

The  girl,  as  she  sat  backward  of  a  full  view  of  the  face 
her  hand  caressed,  could  not  see  its  hard-set  lines,  its 
knitted  brows,  all  the  tension  of  it  and  the  greyness.  Her 
voice  ran  musically  on,  torturing  him  with  its  sweet 
cadences  and  disallowance  of  discarded  cares.  For  some 
slightest  insight — some  gleam  of  something  wrong — had 
shown  her  that  her  talk  of  her  father  had  been  misplaced. 
Maybe — who  could  tell? — it  was  too  soon  in  the  day  to 
be  dwelling  on  such  matters.  It  was  selfish  of  her.  But 
his  fault,  too,  partly.  What  need  had  he  to  talk  of  Eus- 
set  Cross  and  Lea  Down? 

It  chanced  presently  that  a  robin  crossed  the  lawn,  and 
came  close  to  them,  claiming  breakfast.  Lucinda  went 
for  crumbs  to  the  table,  and  threw  them  on  the  lawn, 
watching  the  bird  approach.  A  second  robin,  counting 
his  privileges  invaded,  flew  straight  at  the  first  comer, 
pecking  at  him  furiously.  "  See,  Oliver,  see,''  said 
Lucinda,  watching  them,  "  how  the  little  peckrels  use 
their  beaks,  like  little  wicked  swords  in  a  duel.  Oh, 
how  can  men  find  heart  to  slay  each  other?  Oliver — 
Oliver ! " 

Then,  as  the  first  robin  fled,  leaving  the  other  mighty 
proud  of  his  victory,  she  turned  and  caught  a  look  upon 
her  lover's  face.  An  awful  look  that  she  had  never  seen 
before.  And  a  choking  cry,  that  none  hears  until  for  the 
first  time  he  sees  epilepsy,  was  in  her  ears.  She  tried  to 
catch  him  as  he  fell  forward,  for  he  had  half  risen.  But 
his  weight  was  too  great  for  her,  and  she  could  not  stay 
him  from  a  headlong  crash  into  the  porcelain  they  had 


AN  AFEAIK  OF  DISHO:^rOK  29 

drunk  and  eaten  from.  And  there  he  lay  in  his  convul- 
sion, and  foam  flew  from  his  lips  as  from  a  mad  dog^s 
mouth,  and  mixed  with  the  blood  that  came  freely  from 
his  bitten  tongue,  till  the  girl's  heart  stood  still  as  she 
thought  of  the  demoniacs  in  the  tombs  of  old. 


CHAPTEK  III 

Sib  Oliver's  rally  from  his  attack  was  a  slow  one.  He 
did  not  know  what  had  happened;  could  remember  only 
that  he  thought  himself  called,  and  rose  to  go  and  seek 
the  caller.  Then  that  he  must  needs  shout  loud,  against 
his  will — even  as  compulsion  comes  on  us  in  delirium, 
sometimes.  And  then  consciousness,  on  the  greensward, 
with  summoned  servants  around,  and  Lucinda  in  her  ter- 
rified beauty,  and  her  dress  soiled  with  the  blood  that 
had  come  from  his  mouth.  Only  this  he  did  not  know ;  but 
only  that  his  mouth  was  sore,  for  some  reason. 

His  hope  of  a  couple  of  hours  past,  that  he  was  in  a 
dream,  came  back  to  him  as  his  wits  came  back — slowly, 
yet  quicker  than  he  let  them  seem  to  come.  For  his 
memory  of  his  tale  to  tell  revived  first  of  all  else ;  and  he 
was  glad  of  an  excuse  for  silence.  Yet,  to  deceive  himself, 
he  affected  in  his  own  heart  that  his  confession  had  been 
on  his  tongue's  tip,  at  the  point  of  his  interruption  by  this 
God-knows-what  that  he  could  not  understand. 

"  What  is  all  this  to-do  ?  Why  are  all  these  fools 
here?  Pack  them  all  off  about  their  business!  'Nol — 
let  Rackham  stay."  And  then,  all  the  other  servants 
having  gone,  he  made  the  groom  help  him  to  his  feet,  and 
leaned  on  his  arm  as  he  walked  towards  the  house.  There 
was  in  this  no  such  tax  on  his  companion's  strength  that 
the  woman's  arm  might  not  have  served  his  turn  as  well ; 
and  it  made  a  little  soreness  for  her  that  her  lover  should 
not  have  looked  to  her  first  for  help.    As  for  him,  he  was 

80 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^OK  31 

flincliing  from  her  more  and  more,  as  the  ghastly  story  he 
had  to  tell  grew  deadlier  and  deadlier  in  its  hold  upon  his 
heart. 

"  How  came  I  to  fall — why  was  it  ?  "  said  he,  as  she 
followed  him,  fearing  his  displeasure,  yet  knowing  no  overt 
cause  for  it.    He  hardly  turned  to  her  to  speak. 

"  Oliver  dearest ! — ^why  should  I  know,  and  how  ? 
What  can  I  say,  hut  that  you  fell  and  lay  insensible  ?  ^' 

"  I  was  not  insensible.    How  long  was  it  ?  " 

*^  I  was  in  such  fear  for  you,  love ! — how  could  I  tell 
what  it  might  be  that  ailed  you?  It  might  have  been 
death." 

"  But  at  a  guess,  how  long  ? " 

"  There  go  the  clocks  at  the  hour !  What  time  was  it, 
Mr.  Eackham,  when  the  boy  rode  away  for  the  doctor  ?  " 

Mr.  Kackham  couldn't  say  to  a  minute.  "  But  it  was 
well  short  of  the  half-hour.  The  boy  Kenneth  himself 
could  tell  best."    But  his  master  cut  his  speech  short. 

"  Who  sent  for  the  doctor  ?  Where  were  your  wits, 
Mistress  Lucinda,  not  to  stop  the  damned  fool?  What 
has  it  all  been  ?  Tell  me  that,  and  send  the  idiot  packing 
when  he  comes — him  and  his  blood-letting  and  his 
purges."   .    .    . 

"  How  shall  we  know  what  ailed  you,  if  we  send  him 
packing  ?  Be  patient  for  the  nonce,  dearest  Oliver.  How 
can  we  be  as  wise  about  the  malady  as  he  ?  " 

"I'll  none  of  his  damnable  drugs — be  sure  of  that! 
'Nov  be  let  a  drop  of  blood — be  sure  of  that  too!  Make 
him  write  the  name  of  the  ailment,  if  it  be  one,  fairly 
on  a  sheet  of  paper  and  sign  his  name  to  it.  And  if  he 
make  words  over  it,  souse  him  in  the  horse-pond  till  he 
be  of  a  wiser  mind." 

Thereon  the  girl  urged  on  him  that  no  physician,  were 


32  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

he  Galen  himself,  could  name  the  disorder  except  he 
should  see  the  patient.  But  Sir  Oliver  would  hear  none 
of  this.  There  was  nothing  wrong  with  him  now,  as  must 
be  plain  to  her,  or  to  anyone  with  eyes ;  and  for  his  attack 
of  faintness,  or  unconsciousness,  surely  she  could  describe 
that  better  than  ever  he  could,  who  knew  naught  of  it, 
nor  felt  aught  either.  Let  her  but  tell  Dr.  Phinehas  what 
chanced,  saying  it  happened  thus,  and  thus,  and  if  his 
doctorship  was  not  a  mere  quackery,  he  would  be  able 
to  tell  at  a  word  what  was  the  name  of  his  malady.  But 
none  of  his  'pothecary  stuff  for  him,  till  he  had  drained 
the  last  cup  of  good  wine  from  the  cellar.  Which  brought 
them  up  the  steps  of  the  garden  terrace  to  the  window  of 
the  great  hall  which  opened  on  it,  and  there  Sir  Oliver 
would  have  it  the  clock,  which  pointed  to  eleven,  was 
wrong.  And  Mistress  Lucinda  said  so  it  was,  truly — 
thinking  he  meant  it  was  some  eight  minutes  behind  the 
time.  But  he  meant  that  it  should  have  been  ten  by  the 
hour;  for  he,  being  still  somewhat  stupefied,  had  failed 
to  count  the  strokes  of  the  clocks  they  had  heard  without. 
And  he  now  saw,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  had  lain  over 
an  hour  on  the  greensward,  without  sense  or  feeling. 

They  got  him  away  to  his  room,  at  his  own  choice  that 
it  should  be  so;  and  there  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  seeming 
well  pleased  to  be  alone,  at  which  his  lady  chafed  not  a 
little.  For  she  would  have  been  better  satisfied  that  he 
should  have  besought  her  to  remain  with  him,  in  place  of 
indifference  as  to  whether  she  stayed  or  went.  And 
thereto  his  desire  that  John  Rackham  only  should  be 
near  him  for  service,  of  all  in  the  house.  But  she  gave 
way  to  him  in  this,  as  in  all  else;  for  instance,  his  bid- 
ding her  write  straightway  to  stop  the  coming  of  all  in- 
vited guests,  on  the  plea  of  his  indisposition. 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  33 

And  yet  all  the  while  he  was  saying  that  nothing  ailed 
him.  And  in  truth  he  thought  so;  and  his  zest  to  be 
alone,  and  sleep,  was  but  the  outcome  of  the  stress  of  his 
secret  burden  of  which  Mistress  Lucinda  had  no  knowl- 
edge or  suspicion.  It  had  come  to  this,  that  he  hungered 
only  for  a  respite  from  the  telling  of  the  tale  that  he  knew 
she  must  one  day  know.  Also,  it  might  be  that  his  task 
would  be  an  easier  one  if  the  knowledge  of  her  father's 
death  came  to  her  first  from  without,  whether  or  not  he 
figured  in  it  as  his  slayer. 

So  she,  compliant  in  all  things,  however  much  she  felt 
this  wound  or  that,  left  him  to  himself,  and  sat  alone, 
building  up  hopes  that  she  might  hear  his  voice  sum- 
moning her  to  his  side. 

She  wrote  such  notes  as  were  needed  to  intercept  the 
three  or  four  men  guests  and  the  one  or  two  women  who 
would  have  accompanied  them — women  situated  like 
herself,  but  her  social  inferiors — women  whom  she  shrank 
from,  whom  she  never  would  have  spoken  with  but  for 
her  own  reckless,  misguided  defiance  of  social  rule.  She 
was  better  pleased  to  write  these  notes  to  stop  their 
coming  than  she  had  been  to  invite  them.  When  she  had 
arranged  for  their  despatch  by  messenger,  she  was  inter- 
rupted in  the  thought  of  what  she  should  do  next  by  a 
sudden  fatigue  that  surprised  her — a  reaction  from  excite- 
ment, an  anxiety  no  previous  experience  of  hers  had 
qualified  her  to  foresee.  She  made  a  stand  against  it; 
answered  her  attendant,  Rachel  Anstiss,  who  would  have 
had  her  lie  down,  with  a  reference  to  the  heat  of  the  day, 
and  walked  languidly  about,  fanning  herself. 

But  she  lay  down  presently,  on  the  couch  in  the  great 
hall  that  was  cool  still,  for  all  the  sun  was  so  hot  without, 
now  near  upon  noonday.     She  had  no  heart  for  sleep; 


34  AIST  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

although  she  might  readily  have  slept,  as  far  as  fatigue 
went,  however  strange  the  hour  might  seem  to  choose  for 
sleeping.  But  she  was  on  the  watch  for  Oliver's  voice, 
should  he  call,  and  she  longed  for  it  too  much  to  forget 
that  it  might  come.  She  could  listen  to  the  hum  of  the 
strayed  bee,  cheated  by  an  open  window  to  believe  in 
sweets  within — could  hear  it  rise  and  fall,  now  near,  now 
far,  and  then  at  last  detect  the  cheat,  and  sweep  impa- 
tiently again  into  the  blazing  air  without;  vanish  away, 
recur  once  more,  then  die  away  for  good.  She  could 
even  dwell  upon  the  monotonous,  decisive  ticking  of  the 
eight-day  clock,  that  would  not  hurry  a  single  pace,  al- 
though the  great  event  of  its  day  was  so  near  at  hand — 
even  that,  and  yet  not  half  drop  an  eyelid.  For  her  eyes 
burned,  and  were  dry,  and  her  brows  above  them  throbbed, 
and  her  heart  was  full  of  sickness  and  misgivings  of  she 
knew  not  what. 

Could  she  have  held  back  the  time  she  would  have  done 
it.  For  she  dreaded  the  midday  meal,  and  the  presence 
of  all  the  servants,  and  the  morose  humour  of  her  lord  and 
master.  For  that  was  the  name  to  call  him  by;  and  his 
mastery  was  stronger  over  her  than  any  rule  or  rein  the 
laws  of  God  or  man  grant  to  husband  or  father  for  the 
better  curbing  of  wife  or  child.  But  the  hours  passed  on 
in  the  stillness,  and  the  great  clock  would  have  its  say  at 
last.  It  muttered  a  solemn  warning,  denouncing  all  who 
did  not  pause  to  listen  to  the  thing  it  had  to  tell ;  the  thing 
that  might  be  true  to-morrow  of  another  day,  but  never 
of  this  day  again. 

But  Lucinda  was  impatient  with  it,  that  it  should  dwell 
so  long  and  loud  on  what  all  knew  already,  when  what  she 
herself  desired  to  know  was  who  was  the  rider  who  had 
dismounted  at  the  front  gate,  whose   summons  for   ad- 


AN  AFEAIR  OF  DISHONOK  35 

mission  would  be  heard  in  a  moment — was  heard  before 
the  last  stroke  was  forgotten,  the  resonance  extinct, 
each  hand  busy  on  its  task  apart.  A  timorous  summons, 
as  of  a  man  who  rings  a  great  man's  bell,  and  would 
conciliate  him  by  keeping  its  voice  down  to  the  level  of 
his  necessities.  A  summons  that  says  a  meek  man  is  at 
the  gate,  who  may  ring  again,  but  not  too  soon. 

'^  Eachel  Anstiss,  if  that  is  Doctor  Phinehas,  see  that 
they  send  him  in  here  to  me.'' 

"  Not  if  he  asks  for  Sir  Oliver — my  lady  ?  "  The  hand- 
maiden addresses  her  grudgingly  by  this  title — hangs  fire 
over  it,  discharges  it  abruptly  in  the  end.  This  is  the 
way  of  the  household,  and  Lucinda  knows  it — has  known 
it  since  she  came  here  first. 

"  Do  as  I  have  told  you ! "  Eachel  knows  the  time  is 
not  safe  for  rebellion  yet.  It  may  come,  though,  or  not, 
as  time  shows,  or  policy  decides.  For  now,  she  will 
make  sure  that  the  dot-and-go-one  footstep  of  Dr. 
Phinehas  goes  straightway  where  she  is  bidden  to 
show    him. 

A  man  of  sixty  may  look  like  a  skin  of  parchment 
stretched  over  knobs  of  wood.  For  Dr.  Phinehas  did  so. 
He  may  have  a  polished  pate,  if  he  wear  no  peruke,  and 
have  no  brows  or  lashes  to  his  eyes,  and  his  gold  spectacles 
may  seem  to  have  been  born  with  him;  and  yet  there 
may  be  no  need  for  him  to  crack  his  fingers  as  he  speaks, 
nor  to  pinch  his  lips  with  superhuman  shrewdness  at 
speech-ends,  nor  to  cover  his  ear  that  can  hear  with  his 
hand,  and  bring  both  within  an  inch  of  your  mouth.  Yet 
Dr.  Phinehas  did  all  these  things,  and  Lucinda  disliked 
the  last.  But  she  had  to  shout  into  his  ear  for  all  that. 
Still  she  was  grateful  to  him  for  one  thing:  he  called  her 
boldly  by  her  name,  and  made  no  attempts  to  gloss  over 


36  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

her  position  by  any  use  of  lady  or  ladyship,  to  which  last 
very  surely  she  had  no  title. 

"  The  worshipful  Sir  Oliver  hath  had  a  seizure,  Mistress 
Lucy  ?   .    .    .     It  is  I  that  am  asking  you.    Is  that  so  ? " 

"  A  sudden  malady  of  a  sort,  truly  enough !  But 
whether  it  be  a  seizure  or  what,  I  cannot  know,  as  how 
should  I?" 

"  Neither  can  I,  Mistress  Lucy,  except  I  see  him." 

"  What  can  I  do,  then,  Dr.  Phinehas,  seeing  he  is 
resolved  to  see  no  physician,  neither  to  take  any 
remedy  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  indeed,  Mistress  Lucy !  The  obstinate  man 
is  resolute  to  his  own  destruction.  But  you  were  present 
— so  said  the  messenger  who  summoned  me — ^when  this 
convulsion,  whatever  it  might  be,  came  about  ?  "  Dr. 
Phinehas  interlaced  his  fingers,  and  forced  them  down- 
wards and  outwards  with  a  sounding  crack.  He  then 
brought  his  left  hand  suddenly  back  to  its  ear,  to  listen 
with,  as  before. 

Lucinda  shouted  a  loud  affirmative  "Yes!"  into  it, 
and  then  went  straight  on  into  a  precise  account  of  all 
that  had  occurred,  beginning  with  a  statement  that  Sir 
Oliver,  on  his  return  from  a  short  ride  before  breakfast, 
had  foolishly  provoked  her  cockatoo  to  scratch  his  fore- 
head. The  doctor  hearkened  to  her  attentively,  nodding 
at  intervals  as  one  who  has  just  heard  what  some  previous 
information  had  led  his  insight  and  experience  to  expect. 
AVhen  she  had  reached  Sir  Oliver's  headlong  fall  on  the 
lawn,  the  learned  man  embarked  on  a  succession  of  rapid 
nods.  He  had  heard  enough,  for  one  of  his  wide  ex- 
perience. Why  listen  further  to  what  he  could  know 
without  telling? 

"  Enough,  Mistress  Lucy !   Now — ^your  attention !   Was 


AX  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  37 

there  any  immoderate  haemorrhage  from  this  parrot- 
scratch  ?  .  .  .  Did  it  bleed  much  ?  "  This  was  to  ac- 
commodate her  lesser  understanding. 

'^  Scarcely  at  all !  "  The  doctor  left  a  confirmatory 
shrewd  look  on  his  face,  to  show  he  had  anticipated  this 
answer,  with  his  head  atwist  to  endorse  it.  But  it  did 
not  convince  Lucinda  that  he  had  expected  it. 

"  Has  the  worshipful  Sir  Oliver  suffered  of  late  from 
effusion  of  any  acrid  humour? — from  crudities  of  the 
stomach  ? — from  melancholic  depression  of  the  mind  ?  " 

"  I  know  of  no  such  thing.  He  was  merry  overnight, 
and  slept  well,  rising  early  to  ride." 

"  Now  listen !  You  tell  me,  Mistress  Lucy,  that  the 
patient  foamed  at  the  mouth,  as  a  mad  dog  foams.  Tell 
me  this — ^was  this  convulsion  accompanied  with  a  spastic 
rigidity  of  the  whole  body,  or  was  it  rather  an  irregular 
clonic  contraction  of  the  muscles  locally  ?  " 

"  Both,  to  the  best  of  my  noting  the  manner  of  it.  But 
how  can  I  know  that  I  understand  you  ?  He  jerked  most 
horribly,  and  his  eyes  went  away  beneath  the  lids.  And 
the  blood  came  from  his  mouth.  I  could  but  think,  as  I 
heard  his  cry,  that  a  fiend  had  entered  into  him,  and 
that  it  was  ill  for  me,  in  an  evil  day,  that  there  should  be 
no  blessed  Saviour  to  cast  him  out,  as  our  Lord  cast  out 
the  evil  spirits  of  the  Gadarenes  and  drove  them  for 
refuge  to  the  bodies  of  the  swine." 

Dr.  Phinehas  smiled  compassionately  at  the  simplicity 
that  would  mix  together  the  belief  that  was  a  duty  with 
the  knowledge  that  was  a  certainty — a  confusion  of 
secular  with  religious  truth.  What  should  he  know  of 
the  casting  forth  of  evil  spirits  otherwise  than  by  blood- 
letting and  purges  ?  "  There  is  none  such  thing  now, 
Mistress  Lucy,"  he  said,  "  unless  indeed  one  should  name 


38  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

his  blessed  Majesty,  who  hath  touched  for  the  Evil  ^ve 
hundred  persons  in  one  day,  whereof  a  many  testify  to 
have  received  great  benefit,  and  it  were  treason  to  his 
Majesty  to  doubt  it.  But  it  is  no  treason,  neither  to 
his  Majesty  nor  to  our  blessed  Lord  and  Saviour,  to  say 
that  no  evil  spirit  is  needed  to  account  for  a  simple  case 
of  scrophula  fugax,  a  mere  swelling  of  the  conglobate 
glands  of  the  neck,  such  as  I  suppose  most  of  these  cases 
to  have  been  ..."  The  learned  man  might  have 
launched  into  a  dissertation  on  the  King's  Evil,  as  scroph- 
ula was  called  in  those  days,  but  Lucinda  interrupted. 

"  Leave  this  now.  Master  Phinehas — though  I  may  ask 
you  more  of  it  hereafter — to  tell  me  what  I  seek  to  know 
of  this  malady  of  Sir  Oliver,  and  what  he  has  bidden  me 
to  ask  you.  Is  his  ailment  what  is  known  to  the  folk 
of  these  parts  as  the  Falling  Sickness?  and  if  it  be  so, 
what  is  there  that  may  be  a  remedy  to  it,  and  how  should 
it  be  employed,  seeing  that  he  is  untractable,  and  opposes 
all  advice  or  help  of  medicine  ? '' 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  bones  of 
them  cracked  as  his  hands  had  done.  "  For  the  treat- 
ment, it  must  needs  be  the  same  as  that  of  any  patient 
who  will  not  be  treated,  except  it  may  be  a  child  that 
can  be  controlled.  Leave  him  alone  till  he  come  to  a 
wiser  mind,  and  pray  God  he  may  not  die  in  the 
interim." 

"  And  for  the  nature  of  the  malady  ?  " 

"  For  its  nature,  so  far  as  I  may  pronounce  without 
seeing  the  patient,  it  hath  all  the  character  of  true 
epilepsia  cerehralis,  having  seized  upon  him  suddenly  and 
without  forewarning — without,  as  I  understand,  even  the 
slightest  vertigo  or  scotomia — and  being  accompanied  by 
all  the  specific  symptoms  thereof.     But  in  view  of  the 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOK  39 

injury  of  the  parrot's  beak,  however  slight  the  haemor- 
rhage, we  may  hope  that  the  attack  belongs  rather  to  the 
class  of  epilepsia  occasionalis,  and  may  not  recur,  or  but 
little ;  and  may  vanish  altogether  with  the  removal  of  the 
irritation  that  has  caused  it." 

^'  Is  there  anything  that  I  can  be  beforehand  with  as 
a  precaution,  should  another  attack  come?  Or  any  care 
of  his  diet  or  such  like,  whereby  I  may  influence  him  un- 
awares for  his  good  ?  " 

In  reply  the  doctor  advised  a  course  of  treatment  that 
his  hearer  knew  would  only  exasperate  her  patient.  She 
could  never  limit  his  nourishment  to  ptisans,  which 
indeed  are  nothing  but  barley  flour  or  lentils  boiled  in 
water,  even  though  they  were  prepared  from  the  receipt 
of  Hippocrates,  and  sanctioned  by  the  practice  of  Celsus. 
Still  less  would  she  dare  to  attempt  to  purge  the  acrid 
humours  from  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  body  by  intro- 
ducing white  hellebora  surreptitiously  into  his  aliments. 
Therefore,  as  it  was  also  out  of  the  question  to  relieve 
by  bleeding  the  plethora  of  the  veins,  due  to  the  corrup- 
tion of  the  blood,  whereby  (saith  Hippocrates)  the  spirits 
are  denied  a  passage  through  them,  the  worthy  doctor 
was  at  a  loss  to  make  further  suggestion.  Should  an 
attack  recur,  it  might  be  well,  he  said,  to  thrust  a  stout 
cork  at  the  outset  between  the  teeth  of  the  patient,  to 
lessen  the  danger  of  their  closing  on  the  tongue,  and  also 
to  lay  open  the  throat  and  breast  to  the  air.  A  pail  of 
cold  water  might  be  thrown  over  him  at  the  outset.  But 
from  this  Lucinda  shrank,  as  from  other  demonstrative 
remedies. 

"  Then,  indeed,  mistress,"  said  the  doctor  upon  this, 
'^  I  can  be  of  little  service  to  you,  and  may  as  well  be 
jogging ;  for  there  are  others  that  call  for  my  aid,  and  are 


40  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOK 

more  complaisant  in  the  use  of  it.  But  I  may  say  this, 
from  my  own  experience  of  this  malady — though  I  know 
not  what  the  judgment  would  have  been  of  Hippocrates 
nor  of  Praxagoras — that  any  contradiction  to  the  pa- 
tient's will,  or  thwarting  of  intention,  may  well  lead  to 
an  outbreak  or  convulsion.  So  my  counsel  is  that  he 
be  opposed  in  nothing,  even  to  the  smallest  trifle." 

He  said  this  with  earnest  emphasis;  and  Lucinda,  as 
he  seemed  to  wait  for  her  assurance  that  it  should  be 
borne  in  mind,  nodded  her  assent  to  him ;  the  more  easily 
that  she  had  very  little  disposition  to  oppose  Sir  Oliver 
in  anything,  even  could  she  hope  for  success  in  doing  so. 
The  doctor  then  took  his  leave  and  his  fee  and  departed, 
refusing  Lucinda's  invitation  to  him  to  remain  and  take 
his  midday  meal  at  the  family  table,  for  which  the  bell 
was  at  the  moment  ringing. 

The  usage  at  the  Hall  had  till  lately  been,  as  in  other 
great  houses  in  those  days,  that  all  the  household  should 
eat  together,  the  dishes  going  first  to  the  upper  table — 
above  the  salt,  as  the  phrase  was.  But  since  her  lady- 
ship's departure,  in  wrath  at  Sir  Oliver's  public  neglect 
of  her,  and  still  worse  public  devotion  to  others  more 
attractive — though,  indeed,  she  had  naught  to  complain 
of  that  was  not  the  lot  of  other  wives  in  her  rank  of  life — 
the  great  dining-room  had  been  left  to  the  household. 
Sir  Oliver  and  his  company  of  the  time  being  leaning  to 
the  privacy  of  a  separate  repast  in  another  apartment. 
This  change  had  not  held  good  when  there  were  guests 
to  the  number  of  more  than  one  or  two;  and  when  this 
was  so,  her  mock  headship  of  the  house  was  not  unwel- 
come to  Lucinda,  however  much  she  knew  the  men's 
courtesy  was  but  a  pretext,  and  the  women  rarely  in  a 
position  to  cast  a  stone  at  her,  were  it  never  so  small. 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  41 

But  on  this  day,  seeing  Sir  Oliver  came  not  to  table,  and 
seemed  like  to  remain  away,  she  was  glad  of  the  secluded 
room,  and  the  eyes  of  Eachel  Anstiss  alone,  little  as  she 
liked  them. 

And  yet  it  was  grievous  enough  to  her,  when  she 
took  her  seat  at  the  board  and  awaited  the  coming  of 
Sir  Oliver — for  so  she  might  have  done  another  time, 
not  waiting  for  his  escort  to  table — that  this  time  he  came 
not,  but  only  John  Rackham,  with  a  surly  message,  or 
one  surlily  given. 

"  The  master  eats  in  his  room.  .  .  .  What  wine  will 
'a  drink,  eh?  Why,  the  old  sack  of  the  third  bin,  with 
his  grandsire's  seal  on  it.  Trust  un !  "  This  man  made 
no  show  of  deference,  using  to  Lucinda  no  name  or  title 
of  address,  and  only  stopping  short  with  a  grin  of  using 
her  maiden  name,  that  he  had  known  her  well  by,  from 
childhood.  He  grinned  over  the  wine,  but  still  surlily. 
"  Why — here  be  the  keys  of  'un,"  said  he.  "  And  you 
be  to  come  to  the  cellar,  for  a  safeguard  I  shouldn't  help 
myself !  "  Had  his  grin  been  all  the  words  in  his  power 
to  speak,  he  could  not  have  said  more  plainly :  *^  I  should 
have  been  the  bearer  of  no  such  charge  had  the  parson 
had  his  say  over  the  two  of  you  at  the  altar."  His 
thought  glared  through  it,  unmistakable. 

"  Go  on  in  front,  John  Rackham,"  she  said ;  "  I  will 
follow  you."  For  she  hated  this  man  and  his  bluntness 
less  than  the  mock  courtesy  of  Rachel  Anstiss  and  the 
others. 

The  cellar  was  old,  though  the  house  was  new,  and 
dated  back  to  the  days  of  John  of  Gaunt,  when  the 
priory  was  built,  that  was  cleared  away  in  the  early 
time  of  Queen  Elizabeth  to  make  way  for  the  Hall,  only 
a  century  old  now  at  most,  and  the  work  of  Sir  Oliver's 


42  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

grandfather.  Another  century  has  come  and  gone  since 
then,  and  the  great  house,  with  its  stone  fagade  and 
terrace,  all  moss-grown  and  stone-cropped,  and  silvery 
with  lichens,  stands  at  this  hour  untenanted,  and  has 
done  so  for  twenty  years  past.  Of  the  tales  such  as  are 
told  in  plenty  of  old,  deserted  houses — ^tales  of  spectres 
seen  and  gruesome  voices  heard,  by  night  and  day — 
Croxley  Hall  has  more  than  its  fair  share;  and  among 
these  none  is  better  remembered  or  oftener  told  than 
the  legend  of  the  murder  of  the  nun  Mary,  who  hid  herself 
away,  when  her  fellows  were  driven  forth  from  their 
nunnery  near  at  hand,  in  the  already  deserted  priory, 
and  met  her  fate  at  the  hands  of  certain  roysterers,  being 
found  dead  next  day  in  the  very  vault  where  Sir  Oliver 
kept  such  good  store  of  wine.  For  in  that  vault,  it  was 
said,  so  sure  as  the  day  of  her  death  came  round,  might 
be  heard  at  midnight  such  disturbance  as  would  tell  the 
manner  of  it  to  whoso  had  the  courage  to  listen  alone  in 
the  darkness,  shortly  after  the  stroke  of  twelve.  For 
the  truth  of  which  story  none  can  vouch,  seeing  that  he 
who  has  heard  these  sounds  cannot  be  got  to  speak  of 
them,  from  sheer  horror. 

^N'ow,  this  Lucinda  had  no  fear  of  the  ^N'un's  Cellar,  as 
it  was  always  called ;  but  some  curiosity  to  see  it,  which 
doubtless  made  her  the  readier  to  follow  John  Rackham's 
horn  lanthorn  down  the  winding  stair  that  led  to  it.  By 
its  light  she  could  make  out  that  it  was  a  spacious  crypt, 
having  a  good  span  of  arched  roof,  with  here  and  there 
some  moulded  corbel  or  pendentive  or  scrap  of  sculptured 
imagery,  headless  or  handless,  a  token  of  the  old  foolish 
faith  of  her  forefathers,  of  which  she  took  little  heed; 
or  carved  lettering  that  would  have  had  no  meaning  for 
her  could  she  have  deciphered  it,  being  in  Latin. 


AN  AFFAIK  0]P  DISHONOR  43 

"  So  this  is  where  the  girl  was  murdered,"  said  she  to 
Mr.  Rackham,  as  he  stooped  to  a  low  bin  where  the  cob- 
webs lay  thick  on  the  bottles,  all  but  where  some  had 
been  removed  of  late. 

The  groom  brought  out  his  bottle,  and  stood  wiping 
the  cobweb  from  it  with  his  hand.  He  looked  at  the 
mark  on  the  cork,  opening  the  lanthorn  for  more  light. 
Then,  seeming  satisfied,  he  closed  it  up,  and  answered: 
^'  Ay — and  she  walks !  .  .  .  Seen  her  my  own  self  ? — 
not  I,  nor  heard  her!  But  they  do  say  she  do,  Candle- 
mas night;  and  ye  mun  hear  her  squealin'  to  un  to  kill 
her,  for  God's  mercy !  There's  the  tale  they  tell,  mistress. 
I've  had  no  hand  in  the  making  of  it."  He  blew  the 
smoky  flame  out  as  they  left  the  crypt  below  them  and 
reached  daylight  again,  and  added,  as  he  finally  closed 
the  lanthorn:  ^^  It's  an  ugly  class  of  tale,  to  my  thinking." 
It  was,  and  Lucinda  was  glad  to  get  back  to  the  sound  of 
the  birds.  For  the  stairway  opened  on  a  side-garden,  and 
it  was  a  step  to  the  main  entry  they  had  come  by. 

A  rider  had  come  to  the  forecourt  of  the  house  while 
she  was  absent  on  this  matter  of  the  wine,  and  she  would 
have  to  pass  him  if  she  entered  by  the  front  door,  her 
nearest  way  back.  For  he  had  entered  and  was  speaking 
with  someone  within,  while  his  horse  cropped  the  loo«e 
herbage  scattered  here  and  there,  grown  through  the 
joints  of  the  brick  paving,  or  on  the  turf  skirting  on  either 
side  the  doorway,  his  reins  hanging  unsecured,  as  thons^h 
no  restraint  were  in  his  case  needed.  Lucinda  thought 
at  first  to  enter  by  a  side-door;  but  she  knew  the  horse, 
and  could  not  pass  it  by  without  a  word,  and  she  called 
it  by  name — ^^  Aeolus !  " 

A  mouthful  of  vetch  was  too  good  to  lose,  but  the 
beautiful  creature  swung  his  black  head  round  to  greet 


44  AIT  AFFAIR  OF  DISHO:^OR 

an  old  friend,  and  awaited  her  caress,  but  munching  the 
while  earnestly.  And,  gigantic  as  was  his  head,  and  like 
enough  by  some  chance  movement  to  shake  her  off  un- 
wittingly, Lucinda  threw  her  arms  about  it  as  a  lover, 
and  took  the  sweet  breath  of  his  nostrils  without 
shrinking. 

"  Aeolus,  Aeolus,"  she  cried,  "  I  little  thought  to  see 
you  again  ...  so  soon !  "  But  the  ending  words  were 
an  afterthought,  for  she  would  not  admit  the  seeming  of 
her  first,  that  they  spoke  of  a  lasting  exile  from  her  home. 

At  her  speech  the  rider  turned  and  came  out,  and  it 
was  then  she  heard  the  voice  of  Sir  Oliver  calling  aloud 
from  the  landing  of  the  great  stair  above.  She  heard  her 
own  name,  and  knew  she  must  go,  and,  indeed,  her  heart 
leaped  with  joy  within  her  that  he  should  call  for  her  at 
last.  But  she  could  not  pass  the  man  who  stood  beneath 
the  porch  without  a  word  of  greeting,  or  a  pressure  of  the 
hand  in  memory  of  their  old  days  together,  or  a  word  of 
news  of  her  father  and  her  old  home.  For  he  and  she  had 
been  nursed  at  the  same  breast,  and  had  grown  up 
together;  so  much  as  brother  and  sister  that  neither  had 
ever  thought  to  change  that  relation  to  another. 

That  which  passed,  passed  quickly;  and  Lucinda  after- 
wards found  it  hard  to  recall  in  their  order  the  events 
that  followed.  And  she  could  not  have  told  them  had 
she  tried. 

"  Roger !  "  she  cried,  but  not  over-loud.  "  Do  not  look 
so  horror-stricken,  for  God's  love !  Am  I  not  Lucy  still  ?  " 
For,  be  it  kept  in  mind,  she  still  had  no  thought  but  that 
her  father  was  alive  and  well — her  father,  whom  her 
foster-brother,  but  two  hours  since,  had  left  lying  dead. 

"  Are  you  still  Lucy  ?  "  said  he.  "  Then  all  the  world 
is  wrong,  and  nothing  is  left  but  Death."    For,  having  no 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  45 

conception  that  she  could  still  be  ignorant  of  the  morn- 
ing's evil  work,  his  reasoning  was  that  she  must  be 
changed,  or  her  mind  had  given  way ;  else  she  could  never 
live  tearless,  as  he  saw  her  now,  and  little  visibly  touched 
by  grief,  having,  indeed,  fought  hard  against  her  melan- 
choly, to  be  ready  with  a  cheerful  word  and  a  laugh  when 
Oliver  should  call.  And  there  was  his  voice  now  on  the 
stair ! 

"  Oh,  Roger,  Roger !  "  she  said.  "  Kiss  me  still  as  of 
old,  and  be  forgiving.  Have  I  never  forgiven  thee,  dear 
boy  ?  "  For  this  girl  was  besotted  with  a  false  notion 
that  a  woman's  sin  was  but  as  a  man's,  and  a  thing  to 
be  as  lightly  overlooked.  Yet  she  lived  in  a  day  when 
women  condemned  women  and  applauded  men,  even  as 
in  our  own. 

"  What  is  all  this  talk  below  ?  Why  cannot  the  wench 
come  when  I  call  her  ?  "  So  Sir  Oliver,  impatient  on  the 
stair.  Whereupon  the  young  man's  breath  caught  up,  as 
though  he  might  have  spoken,  but  would  not;  and  then 
he  closed  his  teeth  as  though  he  needed  a  help  to  keep 
silence. 

"  I  am  coming,  dearest  Oliver — I  am  coming.  Let  me 
have  but  a  word  with  Roger,  my  brother.  Dost  thou  not 
know  he  is  my  brother  ?  "  She  tried  a  laugh,  but  it  came 
awkwardly.  She  could  do  no  better,  harassed  as  she  had 
been,  and  not  knowing  what  next  to  doubt  or  fear. 

^^  Has  he  anything  to  say  to  me,  that  he  comes  here 
now?" 

Then  the  young  man  found  his  voice;  but  it  was  little 
like  the  voice  Lucinda  remembered  in  the  old  days,  and 
it  grated  on  her. 

"  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you.  Sir  Oliver,  or  it  may  be 
two.    But  I  would  soonest  say  it  outside,  and  alone." 


46  A^^  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIJ^OR 

Then  Sir  Oliver  said :  "  Be  it  so !  But  mark  yon, 
Eoger  Locke,  the  fault  has  been  none  of  mine  through- 
out !  "  And  in  all  this  Lucinda  could  guess  nothing — ^f or 
how  should  she? — of  her  father's  death,  and  the  weight 
on  Roger's  heart,  and  his  purpose. 

She  went  scarlet  with  anger  and  shame  that  Sir  Oliver 
should  speak  thus,  as  she  thought,  of  herself  and  her  part 
in  a  drama  of  ill-regulated  passion,  that  she  was  full  of 
willingness  to  accept  her  share  of  blame  for,  but  no  more. 
Yet  so  loyal  was  she  to  her  love  that  she  choked  back 
resentful  speech,  but  broke  into  passionate  tears,  crying: 
^^  Yes — the  fault  has  been  mine — been  mine — ^been  mine ! '' 
and  fell,  hiding  her  head  on  the  cushion  of  a  great  settee, 
or  couch,  that  had  stood  in  the  entry  since  the  days  of 
Sir  Oliver's  mother. 

It  seemed  then  to  go  thus,  but  Lucinda  did  not  see  how 
it  came  about.  Sir  Oliver  comes  storming  down  the  stairs 
in  half-undress,  and  is  faced  in  the  lower  hall  by  the 
young  man,  mad  with  the  knowledge  of  the  day's  mur- 
der— for  so  he  counted  it — and  wroth  that  Lucinda, 
whom  he  thought  to  know  all,  should  bear  her  father's 
death  in  such  seeming  calm,  all  her  thought  dwelling  on 
her  own  misdeed.  And  this  wrath  burst  out  past  all  rea- 
son or  control  when  there  before  his  eyes  was  the  mur- 
derer, face  to  face.  Thereupon  he,  Roger  Locke,  cries 
out  upon  him  for  the  miscreant  he  is.  "  Thou  damnedest 
scoundrel,  darest  thou  answer  for  thy  crime  to  a  man  that 
is  thy  proper  match  ?  " 

To  whom  Oliver  answers :  "  Thou  art  a  stripling,  Roger 
Locke,  but  thy  whim  shall  be  met.  Here  and  now,  or 
later  ?  "  The  young  man  makes  no  other  answer  than  to 
dash  the  leather  riding-glove  he  draws  off  full  in  the  face 
of  his  opponent 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO^'OK  47! 

Then  Lucinda  starts  up  from  her  sofa,  and  flings  her 
arms  round  Sir  Oliver,  crying  out  to  him  not  to  add 
murder  to  his  other  delicts.  But  he  will  none  of  her 
obstacle-making,  and  all  but  strikes  her  from  him — 
would  have  done  so  but  for  some  change  that  has  seized 
him.  His  colour  goes,  and  his  face  is  drawn  awry,  and 
his  eyes  vanish  beneath  the  lids,  leaving  the  whites  they 
stint  of  closing  over,  and  from  his  lips  again  comes  the 
awful  cry  she  dreads,  as  he  falls  headlong  forward, 
foaming  at  the  mouth. 

Thereon  the  young  man  thrusts  back  in  the  scabbard 
his  half-drawn  sword.  "  Lucy — Lucy ! ''  he  cries.  "  It 
is  God's  judgment.     Leave  him,  and  come  away." 

But  she,  kneeling  by  the  man  whose  vile  deed  has  made 
her  his  own,  caresses  his  evil  head  as  the  convulsion  rends 
him,  and  the  blood  comes  again  from  his  lips.  "  Begone 
yourself,  Roger !  "  she  cries,  an  agony  of  anger  in  her 
voice.  "  Begone  yourself !  Would  you  tempt  me  to 
desert  him  now,  in  his  hour  of  tribulation?  Go! — ^go! — r 
I  beg  of  you  to  go,  and  leave  me  to  do  what  may  be  done. 
Oh,  Roger,  go!  You  do  me  no  kindness  by  remaining.'' 
And  there  is  such  force  of  heartfelt  appeal  in  her  voice 
that  the  young  man  does  her  bidding  in  silence,  and  hears 
as  he  leaves  the  house  the  hurry  of  servants  hastening  to 
help. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  he  rode  away  under  the 
shadow  of  a  belief  that  Lucy,  whom  he  had  loved  well  in 
his  own  way  from  childhood,  and  counted  as  a  sister, 
was  so  changed  and  hardened  by  her  own  sin,  and  the 
company  of  the  reprobates  she  now  dwelt  among,  that 
her  love  for  her  old  home  was  dead,  and  her  father's 
memory  no  more  than  a  name.  Also,  that  she  herself 
conceived  the  idea  that  all  those  she  once  loved  had  now: 


48  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

withdrawn  from  her,  and  thought  only  of  avenging  the 
dishonor  done  through  her  to  their  family  name.  All 
the  more,  she  swore  to  herself  now,  that  her  plain  duty 
lay  in  devotion  to  the  man  whom  she  looked  on  as  her 
husband  in  all  but  form,  as  his  pledge  to  her  was  to 
become  so  if  by  good  fortune  he  should  obtain  relief  from 
a  lawful  wife  whom  he  hated,  and  who  returned  his  hate. 
But  she  never  dreamed  that  he  had  slain  her  father. 
And  he,  for  his  part,  when  he  came  back  slowly  to  con- 
sciousness, thought  rather  of  how  he  should  conceal  the 
truth  from  her  than  of  the  words  in  which  he  shoul4 
confess  his  crime.  For  his  plan  was  to  keep  her  in  igno- 
rance until  he  should  himself  know  for  certain  whether 
he  was  to  be  publicly  denounced  as  his  opponent's  slayer, 
or  whether  the  one  or  two  who  had  witnessed  the  duel 
would  keep  their  counsel,  and  the  matter  be  forgotten  by 
the  world — as,  strange  to  say,  was  not  uncommonly  the 
case  in  like  matters  in  those  days,  so  lightly  did  men 
hold  by  life  and  death. 

Sir  Oliver  had  little  need  to  feel  uneasy  about  his 
liability  for  murder,  or  manslaughter,  under  a  rule  of  law 
seldom  operative  against  the  survivor  of  a  duel  to  the 
death.  For  the  noble  old  faith  that  God  would  see  fairly 
that  the  man  in  the  wrong  was  slain — the  old  confidence 
in  the  Ordeal  of  Battle,  fought  in  appeal  to  His  inexorable 
Justice — had  survived  the  primitive  belief  in  God  Him- 
self. But  even  if  the  usages  of  that  day  had  countenanced 
vigorous  action  against  the  successful  duellist,  until  time 
had  been  allowed  for  a  fair  start  for  the  nearest  French 
port,  who  was  there  in  this  case  to  take  such  action  ? 
The  Sheriff  you  will  say,  of  course !  Sir  Oliver  was  safe 
enough  there.    He  was  the  Sheriff  himself. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  49 

So  if  the  villagers  who  made  up  the  congregation  of 
the  little  church  buried  in  the  trees,  that  almost  jostled 
the  windows  of  Croxley  Hall,  had  known  three  mornings 
later — for  this  affair  was  fought  out  of  a  Thursday  in 
mid-June — that  Mr.  Mauleverer  of  the  Old  Hall  had  been 
killed  in  a  duel,  they  would  have  ascribed  the  lack  of 
further  news  that  his  opponent  had  been  apprehended  by 
the  officers  of  Justice  to  the  fact  that,  on  that  very 
Thursday  morning,  their  Sir  Oliver  (on  whom  action 
w^ould  have  devolved)  had  been  struck  down  an  hour  or 
so  since  by  an  attack  of  epilepsy.  For  that  news  went 
abroad  without  reserve — Rackham  the  groom  took  good 
care  of  that;  and  each  time  he  told  the  tale  he  made  the 
return  from  a  gallop  over  the  turf  before  breakfast  fall 
earlier,  to  serve  the  turn  of  any  lies  he  might  tell  later. 
But  even  if  the  whole  tale  had  come  out,  and  thereto  the 
ancestral  pew  of  the  Raydons  had  not  stood  empty  that 
Sunday  morning,  the  other  folk  in  Church  would  have 
troubled  but  little  about  the  results  of  one  duel  more 
or  less.  . 


CHAPTEE  ly 

That  summer  was  remembered  long  after  for  its  many 
thunderstorms,  and  that  day  was  the  day  of  the  greatest 
these  islands  had  experienced  within  the  memory  of 
men  then  living.  But,  except  for  the  heat,  men  had 
little  to  complain  of  in  the  early  part  of  it,  there  being 
no  sign  of  a  change  till  some  three  hours  after  midday, 
when  any  man  who  was  keen  to  watch  the  zenith  might 
have  seen  a  hurlyburly  and  turmoil  of  the  lesser  clouds, 
floating  hither  and  thither,  and  swirling  about,  each  one 
seeming  to  give  chase  to  its  fellow.  And  from  every 
quarter  of  the  heavens  came  mutterings  of  thunder,  so 
that  none  could  say  whence  would  come  the  first  lightning- 
flash.  Then,  before  ever  a  single  raindrop  could  be  felt, 
all  who  were  wise  in  time  bestirred  themselves  to  fly  for 
home,  to  make  all  windows  fast  against  the  coming  down- 
pour. Then  he  who,  high  up  on  the  hill-side,  looked  out 
across  the  plain,  might  see  a  horseman  here  and  there, 
alone  or  with  a  wench  pillioned  behind,  sparing  neither 
whip  nor  spur  to  get  with  all  the  speed  he  might  to  shelter. 
Or  cattle,  smitten  with  some  strange  apprehension,  bred  of 
foreknowledge  of  the  matter  brewing,  rushing  hither  and 
thitherward  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  and  bellowing  till  it  was 
pitiful  to  hear  them.  And  here  and  there  a  careful  herds- 
man, judging  his  beasts  would  be  safest  in  byre,  and 
sorely  put  to  it  to  get  them  under  cover  in  time. 

But  this  storm  took  its  course  as  it  would,  and  there 
was  no  such  need  for  haste,  as  it  turned  out.    For  it  was 

60 


AN  AFFAIR  0*F  DISHONOR  51 

many  hours  before  a  drop  of  rain  fell,  though  through  all 
that  interval  low  peals  of  thunder  were  answering  each 
other  from  cloud  to  cloud,  and  telling  of  the  coming  time 
when  they  should  he  let  loose  and  have  their  will.  And 
then  a  great  black  wall  that  had  hidden  the  sun  grew 
blacker  still,  and  spread  over  the  whole  land,  bringing 
such  swift  successions  of  lightning-flash  that  good  eyes 
could  read  by  its  aid  any  fair  printer's  type  and  scarcely 
hesitate;  and  then  the  great  plash-drops  of  rain  came, 
and  the  storm  grew  and  grew,  till  well  upon  midnight, 
and  raged  with  such  fury  that  women — ay,  and  some 
men,  too! — were  found  timid  enough  to  hide  away  in 
cellars  that  they  might  not  be  blinded  by  the  dazzling 
flashes,  nor  their  hearts  made  to  quake  at  the  appalling 
thunderclaps. 

Such  was  that  storm  which,  coming  as  it  did,  set 
Lucinda  clinging  to  the  hope  that  this  malady  of  Sir 
Oliver  was  due  to  the  oppression  of  its  gathering  only, 
and  would  vanish  with  the  perturbations  of  the  atmos- 
phere. For  his  part,  he  must  have  known  but  little  of 
its  violence ;  for  after  his  second  fit  he  fell  into  a  kind  of 
torpor,  which  lasted  on  throughout  that  night  and  the 
whole  of  next  day.  Of  which  unconsciousness  Lucinda 
took  this  advantage,  that  she  watched  by  his  side,  he 
being  always  insensible  of  her  presence,  instead  of  ab- 
senting herself  any  longer  from  his  roof,  and  imperiously 
bade  John  Rackham  begone  and  leave  the  patient  to  her 
care.  Which  bidding  he  for  his  part  thought  it  safest  to 
obey. 

But  this  torpor  had  its  share  in  deciding  the  future  of 
Lucinda.  For  when  Sir  Oliver's  attack  had  left  him  in 
this  condition,  and  she  sat  by  him  as  he  lay  on  the  bed 
he  had  been  removed  to — that  very  bed  from  which  he 


52  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

had  risen  to  slay  her  father — or  snatched  such  sleep  as 
she  might  on  a  couch  near,  she  was  taken  with  a  singular 
hallucination  of  her  father's  voice  calling  to  her.  "  Lucy 
— Lucy !  "  and  was  so  influenced  by  it  that  she  schemed 
forthwith  to  ride  over  to  her  old  home,  and  pray  on  her 
knees  for  his  forgiveness,  and  seek  to  convince  him  that 
constancy  to  her  lover  would  now  be  no  sin,  but  rather 
the  reverse,  seeing  his  helpless  plight  in  this  disastrous 
illness  that  had  befallen  him.  She  would  do  most  wisely, 
so  she  thought  to  herself,  to  go  next  day  after  sundown, 
while  it  was  still  safe  for  a  woman  to  ride  alone,  and  to 
reach  the  Old  Hall  before  nightfall.  For  though  her 
Aunts  Araminta  and  Elsie  were  there,  they  would  scruple 
to  turn  her  out  of  doors  to  make  her  way  back  at  night 
unaccompanied,  and  could  she  but  live  in  her  old  home 
for  a  few  hours,  she  would  bring  her  father  to  her  way 
of  thinking. 

But  from  this  purpose  she  was  turned  by  the  sudden 
outbreak  of  the  storm.  For  she  was  already  mounting 
her  horse  to  ride  without  escort  through  the  twilight 
when  it  burst  overhead.  Whereupon  she,  thinking  from 
its  violence  it  might  be  a  short  passing  tempest,  such  as 
had  been  so  many  times  that  summer,  remained  awhile; 
and  then,  seeing  its  fury  and  persistence,  gave  up  her 
intention  for  that  night,  but  looked  to  carry  it  out  the 
following  morning;  the  more  readily  that  her  night  of 
unrest  had  unfitted  her  for  action  of  any  sort. 

She  had  much  ado  to  bring  herself  to  lie  down  to  sleep, 
for  the  heavy  breathing  of  her  bedfellow  was  a  terror  to 
her.  And  when  a  slow  subsidence  of  its  stertorousness 
left  it  more  sweet  and  regular,  and  she  had  overcome  the 
worst  of  her  repugnance,  and  crept  into  the  bed  as  far  as 
might  be  from  its  object,  she  fancied  at  first  that  she  and 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOE  63 

sleep  must  be  strangers  to  one  another  for  that  night. 
For  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was  the  worse  lullaby — the 
wind  and  rain,  or  the  thunderclaps  that  came  to  shake 
the  house,  each  getting  swiftly  away  into  other  lands,  to 
give  place  to  a  successor  that  had  even  more  to  say,  and 
said  it  louder.  She  could  only  bury  her  eyes  from  the 
glare  beneath  the  thickness  of  the  coverlid,  and  now  and 
then  look  forth  to  see  the  lightning  pierce  the  shutter- 
joints,  and  square  them  out  in  dazzling  lines.  And  then 
to  shrink  back  terrified,  and  picture  to  herself  the  ruined 
garden  she  would  have  to  see  when  the  storm  had  done 
its  worst. 

Thus  she  lay,  wide  awake,  yet  barely  moving,  and 
holding  her  ears  to  keep  out  the  noises,  until — it  might 
be  about  four  in  the  morning — there  came  a  sudden  pos- 
sibility of  sleep,  then  sleep  itself;  as  a  guest  we  watch  for 
at  the  portal  enters  unawares  by  some  postern,  and 
touches  us,  for  a  sign  of  his  presence.  And  then  Lucinda, 
rescued  from  herself,  dreamed  in  Paradise,  with  the 
world  gone  from  her. 

How  long,  who  can  say? — that  is,  if  those  are  right 
who  contend  that  dreams  hang  about  the  Palace  of  Sleep 
on  either  side,  exit  or  entrance,  but  are  not  allowed  in 
beyond  the  forecourts.  To  her  own  thinking,  the  dream 
she  woke  on  had  lasted  many  days,  when  a  voice  without 
mixed  into  one  within  it,  and  she  started  up  to  find  the 
day  well  on,  the  storm  at  rest,  and — oh,  joy! — her  lover 
dressed  as  though  he  purposed  to  go  out  riding  as  usual, 
and  not  to  any  seeming  the  worse  for  his  double  attack 
of  the  falling  sickness.  And  it  was  his  voice  that  she 
had  heard  in  her  dream,  and  she  heard  it  now,  but  some- 
what thick  of  speech,  his  bitten  tongue  being,  as  it  were, 
the  only  record  of  his  malady.     Otherwise,  he  spoke  like 


54  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOISTOR 

enough  to  himself — the  self  of  their  colloquy  of  forty- 
eight  hours  since  in  the  garden  below  the  terrace. 

"  The  beauty  of  Lucinda  will  be  the  greater  that  she 
hath  outslept  the  foul  weather,  and  awaited  the  greeting 
of  the  sunshine.  What  did  you  dream,  mistress  mine, 
that  your  eyes  should  not  smile  upon  the  daylight,  though 
only  for  an  hour  ?  "  His  words  were  full  of  the  artificial 
warmth  which  had  ceased  to  please;  but  better  that  than 
sullenness,  with  no  apparent  cause.  It  was  enough  that 
he  was  himself  again. 

"  I  was  dreaming  a  happy  dream,  sweetheart,  when 
your  dear  voice  woke  me.     Shall  I  tell  it  you  ?  " 

"  So  it  be  not  another  marriage  to  the  hangman,  and 
twins.    ..." 

She  interrupted  him,  making  believe  to  strike  him, 
jestingly :  "  Silly  Oliver  1  Did  I  not  say  this  was  a 
happy  dream  ?  What  happiness  would  my  darling  Amy's 
have  been,  wedded  to  her  hangman  ?  " 

"  Great  joy,  belike,  wise  Lucy !  A  man  and  his  calling 
are  twain.  Even  if  he  was  a  bad  hangman,  he  may  have 
made  a  good  lover.  Except  he  had  had  to  hang  an  old 
flame  of  hers,  and  hanged  him  ill.  She  might  have  sought 
to  be  put  asunder  from  him  for  that.  But  tell  me  thine 
own  dreams,  my  Lucy." 

"Mine  own  dream  in  mine  own  time,  good  plague 
Oliver!  Get  you  gone  now,  while  I  dress.  If  I  forget 
not  the  dream,  it  shall  be  told  you  at  breakfast."  She 
seized  on  the  rich  black  hair  he  was  caressing,  dragging 
it  from  him,  and  again  bade  him  begone. 

This  morning  was  no  time  for  breakfast  under  the  cedar- 
trees.  For  all  the  underfoot,  where  grass  grew,  was  no 
better  than  a  sponge.  And  news  had  come  that  the 
Abbey  meadows,  beyond  the  Park,  were  all  under  water; 


AN  AFFAIE  01"  DISH0:N^0R  65 

and  the  hill  the  Old  Hall  stood  on  seemed  a  distant 
island  in  the  sea,  and  the  Abbey  on  the  shore  thereof, 
close  down  to  the  water^s  edge.  News  came,  too,  of 
farmsteads  washed  bodily  away,  and  their  tenantry 
homeless;  of  giant  trees  stripped  of  leaf  and  bough,  or 
blown  down  outright,  or  cleft  by  the  lightning.  And  of 
one  great  oak,  near  the  New  Hall,  in  Sir  Oliver's  own 
Park,  simply  riven  to  small  shreds  by  a  thunderbolt, 
that  had  fired  a  hayrick  near  by ;  but  the  torrents  of  rain 
quenched  the  flames,  and  left  it  smoking,  as  might  be 
seen  from  the  windows  that  looked  over  the  lawn  to  the 
Park.  And  there  Lucinda,  joining  Sir  Oliver  at  the 
breakfast-table,  could  smell  the  burning  hay,  and  feel 
her  eyes  smart  from  the  stinging  of  its  fumes.  Then  she 
thought  of  the  uncut  grass  in  the  Abbey  meadows,  and 
spoke  of  it  to  Sir  Oliver. 

He  grinned  a  little,  but  as  one  in  pain,  for  the  damage 
done  to  his  mouth  had  left  it  sore.  ^'  There  will  be  but 
little  more  hay  cut  this  year  in  the  Abbey  Meadows," 
said  he,  meaning  thereby  that  there  would  be  none. 
Then  he  added :  "  But  what  is  to  be  thought  on  is  the 
ground  for  riding,  r  We  shall  see  by  noon.''  Then,  as 
one  who  casts  away  careful  thoughts,  and  would  turn  to 
trifling:  "What  was  thy  notable  dream  that  was  to  be 
told  me,  sweet  Lucinda  mine  ?  Tell  it  me  now,  and  leave 
the  floods  to  dry  as  they  may." 

She,  giving  way  to  him  in  all  things,  asked  nothing  of 
what  riding  he  spoke  of,  but  set  about  to  tell  her  dream. 
(Which,  when  she  began  it,  seemed  to  come  to  little  or 
nothing  as  a  story,  however  sweet  its  memory  might 
be  in  the  mind  of  the  teller.  For  what  was  it  after  all 
but  a  jumble  of  recollections  of  all  the  Yuletides  of  her 
youth,  and  all  the  games  and  festivities  and  gatherings 


66  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

that  made  the  Old  Hall  famous  in  those  days.  But, 
as  might  easily  be,  the  dreamer's  memory  had  not  served 
to  separate  the  dead  from  the  living.  So  that  all  she 
had  ever  known  were  there  present.  She  found  Sir 
Oliver  somewhat  hard  against  the  telling  of  it,  or  as  one 
who  humours  a  child — chilling,  as  it  were,  her  joy  in  the 
life  and  warmth  of  the  dreamworld.  But  he  relaxed  a 
little  of  this  when  she  came  to  tell  him  of  how  it  all 
ended;  how  in  the  midst  of  a  dance  it  came  upon  her 
that  no  one  in  the  dream  saw  her  nor  spoke  to  her,  and 
had  not  done  so  since  this  dream  began,  which  seemed  a 
matter  of  days,  though  how  Lucinda  knew  not.  And 
it  got  to  the  worst  plight  for  her  when  she  could  make 
none  of  them  feel  nor  hear;  when  she  kissed  the  woman- 
kind and  they  heeded  her  not,  and  played  notes  upon  her 
sister  Amy^s  virginal  even  while  Amy^s  own  hands  were 
on  the  keys,  and  yet  none  took  note  of  it,  nor  protested. 
And  last  of  all,  her  father  was  calling  to  her,  "Lucy! — 
where  is  Lucy  1  "  and  she  all  the  while  close  to  hand, 
unheard  and  unseen.  And  then  the  voice  of  Sir  Oliver 
crossed  his  in  the  dream,  and  she  waked,  as  already 
told. 

But  Lucinda  could  not  guess,  neither  can  we,  why 
Sir  Oliver's  slight  impatience  of  her  dream  should  vanish 
when  it  grew  to  sheer  nonsense.  Yet  it  was  so,  and  be 
laughed  quite  good-humouredly  when  she  told  of  the 
keys  of  the  virginal,  though  he  said  but  little  of  her 
father's  calling  unheeded.  Indeed,  he  balked  her  words 
curtly  at  the  end  of  her  tale,  saying  it  was  now  time  to 
speak  of  their  journey.  Whereupon  says  she,  "  What 
journey,  Oliver  mine  f    I  know  of  no  journey." 

"  Because  I  have  not  told  of  it,  thou  fairest  of  wenches ! 
I  tell   thee  now,   that   thou  mayst   know   it.      An   hour 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISIIONOK  57 

before  noon  we  start  to  ride  for  Kips  Manor,  and  your 
woman  Anstiss  will  do  well  to  have  the  packing  of  your 
wardrobe  ready,  as  I  told  her,  else  she  may  find  service 
with  another  master  as  soon  as  she  likes." 

'^  The  packing  of  my  wardrobe !  And  where  is  Kips 
Manor,  that  I  never  heard  of  it  in  my  life,  and  why 
should  we  ride  there  ? "  Then  it  crossed  her  mind  what 
the  crabbed  old  medico — whom  she  could  not  but  trust 
a  little,  for  all  his  pomposity — had  said  about  yielding 
to  Sir  Oliver's  least  whim.  So  she  said,  as  though  on  a 
second  thought :  '^  Yet  why  should  we  not  ?  I  will  go 
joyfully,  for  my  part,  sweet  Oliver  mine,  wherever  you 
would  have  me  go,  so  long  as  I  may  be  beside  thee. 
Which  of  our  household  do  you  mean  to  have  to  ride  with 
us  ?  "  But  her  pleasure  was  affected,  for  the  news  of  this 
journey  was  unwelcome  enough,  seeing  that  it  would  carry 
her  still  farther  away  from  her  old  home. 

Sir  Oliver's  laugh  was  not  all  secret,  but  came  out  in 
his  voice  as  he  replied :  "  Never  a  wench  of  them  all,  my 
Lucy,  and  no  man  neither,  all  but  John  Rackham,  and 
young  Kenneth,  may  be,  to  bring  back  the  horses.  He  is 
but  a  boy,  and  no  man.  But  fear  nothing  for  thyself,  my 
girl;  you  will  find  a  tirewoman,  I  promise  you,  and  a 
rare  one,  at  Kips  Manor,  though  there  is  not  another 
that  I  know  nearer  than  King's  Crawley,  nine  miles  away ; 
and  she  belongs  to  a  Duchess,  who  would  not  spare  her 
on  a  light  pretext.  For  the  journey  there,  it  is  but  a 
three  days'  ride,  and  thine  own  hands  may  even  do  at 
shift  for  so  short  a  time." 

She  answered  with  a  willing  acquiescence,  saying 
jestingly:  "John  Rackham  must  clear  the  powder  from 
my  hair,  if  my  lord  is  too  lazy  for  the  task."  But,  indeed, 
hair-powder   was   hateful   to   Lucinda,    and    in   no   case, 


58  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

except  for  some  great  gala,  would  she  easily  consent  to 
the  use  of  it.  So  she  felt  the  separation  from  Rachel 
Anstiss  but  little,  and  all  the  less  for  her  small  eyes  and 
large  teeth,  which  she  had  no  love  for. 

But  what  was  Kips  Manor,  and  where?  Sir  Oliver 
was  not  slow  to  tell  something  of  this  Manor  House  she 
had  never  heard  of,  of  which  he  was  lord.  It  lay  in  the 
flat  country  out  towards  the  sea,  and  the  town  nearest 
to  it  was  named  strangely  to  Lucinda's  ears,  so  that  she 
easily  forgot  it,  which  might  not  have  been  had  she  ever 
heard  spoken  the  name  of  the  Saint  it  was  called  from. 
But  her  youth  had  heard  little  of  the  calendar  of  Saints; 
and  her  desire  now  was  to  know  what  kind  of  a  house 
was  this  Manor  of  Kips,  and  Sir  Oliver  was  ready  enough 
to  answer  her.  It  was  an  old  house,  with  a  four-square 
wall  and  a  moat  of  brackish  water,  kept  salt  by  the  sea- 
springs  from  below,  working  through  a  porous  soil  of 
shingle  and  gravel,  whenever  there  came  a  spring-tide 
rising  more  than  common  high.  Which  under-working 
of  the  sea-tides  had  also  made  all  the  wells  brackish, 
and  unfit  to  drink,  or  for  any  purpose  but  cooking  fish 
or  sousing  meat  for  junk.  Also  for  this  cause,  and  the 
sea-winds  charged  with  spray,  no  garden-growth  was 
possible,  and  nothing  grew  but  tamarisk,  or  toad-grass, 
where  once  were  rose  and  lily  in  abundance.  Then 
what  brought  about  the  change?  asked  Lucinda.  Just 
a  freak  of  Father  E^eptune,  said  Sir  Oliver.  For  one  day 
the  sea,  that  had  never  reached  at  the  highest  nearer  the 
house  than  three  miles,  must  needs  overrun  two  miles  of 
meadow  that  of  right  belonged  to  his  manor,  and  now 
remained,  giving  no  ear  to  any  claim  for  foreshores  from 
their  dispossessed  owners.  And  at  the  lowest  limit  of 
the  tides  of  the  full  and  new  moon  might  be  seen,  where 


AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0K  59 

once  a  village  had  stood,  some  remains  of  a  church  and 
almonry,  of  which  the  dues  were  still  claimed  and  enjoyed 
by  successive  incumbents,  coming  once  in  the  year  to 
read  prayers  and  begone,  but  from  a  boat  if  the  tide 
were  not  low  enough.  One  of  whom  having  been  swept 
out  to  sea  by  a  fierce  land  wind,  and  no  more  heard  of, 
this  duty  had  ever  since  been  done  by  a  curate. 

But  how  came  it  that  no  one  lived  in  this  house  now? 
Because,  said  Sir  Oliver,  the  house  was  now  no  different 
from  what  any  house  would  be  if  it  were  built  in  a  place 
where  none  had  asked  for  it.  Once  it  stood  near  a  small 
port,  with  a  fishing  population  and  pasturage  for  cattle 
round  about.  !N^ow  it  was  little  better  than  a  salt  marsh, 
though  there  were  still  a  few  fisher-folk  scattered  along 
the  shore,  and  the  house  a  five-mile  ride  from  the  nearest 
hamlet,  and  not  so  much  as  a  homestead  left  on  the  land 
poisoned  with  the  salt.  That  was  quite  enough,  to  his 
thinking,  without  a  curse,  to  account  for  why  the  house 
should  be  tenantless.  But  what  did  Sir  Oliver  mean, 
asked  Lucinda,  by  that  word,  "  without  a  curse  "  ? 

"  Why,  thus,"  said  he — "  gossips  tell  this  tale,  at 
least — that  a  curse — ^whatever  that  may  be — was  spoken 
upon  the  house  by  an  ill-wisher,  and  the  spell  laid  upon 
it  that  no  drop  of  rain  should  fall  on  it,  even  though  the 
land  about  were  under  flood." 

^^  But  does  no  rain  fall  there,  then  ?  "  asked  Lucinda. 

"  Simple  Lucinda !  "  said  Sir  Oliver.  "  It  rains  at 
Kips  just  as  it  rains  elsewhere,  and  to  him  who  drinks 
no  water,  roof-water  and  well-water  are  welcome  alike. 
I  would  wager — but  I  should  find  none  to  take  my  wager, 
though  I  backed  it  with  a  round  sum — that  we  shall  find 
every  tank  and  water-butt  full  to  brimming  over,  and 
old  Madge  Hatsell,  who  keeps  house  year  to  year,  never 


60  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOK 

budging  outside  the  gate,  ready  to  swear  this  is  the  first 
time  a  drop  has  fallen  on  the  roof  since  the  days  of  my 
ancestress,  Jean  Kaydon,  who  is  held  answerable  by  the 
tellers  of  the  story  for  the  curse,  as  well  as  for  many 
another  drawback  to  the  charms  of  the  neighbourhood.'' 
Sir  Oliver  held  on  talking  in  this  slight  way,  and  Lucinda 
listened,  happy  to  find  him  cheerful  and  ready  for  con- 
verse, and  indeed  accepting  it  all  as  a  token  that  the 
whole  attack  had  been  caused  by  the  conditions  of 
oppressive  heat  of  the  days  before,  and  would  now  die 
down  and — please  God ! — never  reappear. 

But  the  truth  was,  had  she  known  it,  that  his  amenity 
was  bred  of  a  cunning  intent  to  keep  her  still  in  ignorance 
of  her  father's  death,  until  all  should  be  in  train  for  their 
departure  to  this  lonely  house  in  the  flats.  For  now,  the 
storm  being  over,  and  the  ways  less  foul  hour  by  hour, 
folk  could  be  heard  coming  and  going  betwixt  the  Hall 
and  the  village,  and  any  of  these  might  chance  to  be 
the  bearer  of  the  news;  and  this  although  the  flood  had 
stopped  all  trafficking  for  the  time  between  those  on 
either  side  of  it.  So  long  as  Sir  Oliver  held  her  by  his 
talk,  dwelling  on  this  new  excursion  without  giving  rea- 
son for  it,  there  was  little  chance  of  her  hearing  the  story 
of  that  fatal  morning;  which  news,  as  time  went  on,  he 
felt  less  and  less  inclination  to  be  the  bearer  of  himself. 

Therefore  the  talk  ran  on.  Sir  Oliver  telling  some- 
what more  of  the  legend  of  the  curse  on  Kips  Manor — 
which  tale  has  no  concern  for  this  story,  so  no  pause  need 
be  made  for  it — until,  to  Lucinda's  great  surprise,  the 
woman  Eachel  Anstiss  suddenly  appeared  with  the 
announcement  that  her  mistress's  riding-gear  awaited 
her,  and  that  the  clothes  she  had  been  bidden  to  pack 
were   also  ready.     Whereat,  though  Lucinda  felt  some- 


a:n"  affaik  of  disho:n"Oii  ei 

what  nettled  at  this  abrupt  and  masterful  treatment, 
more  the  due  of  a  child  than  a  grown  woman,  she — 
always  bearing  in  mind  the  injunction  of  Dr.  Phinehas  to* 
oppose  Sir  Oliver  in  nothing — gave  her  assent  with  only  a 
slight  protest;  and  indeed,  being  young  and  full  of  life, 
was  ready  enough  to  adventure  on  a  new  journey.  For 
who  could  say  but  it  might  prove  eventful,  and  at  least 
have  interest  and  excitement  in  the  mere  change  of 
scene  and  arrival  at  a  house  so  strange  and  strangely 
skuate  as  this  one  Sir  Oliver  had  described  to  her.  But 
she  would  not  consent  to  start  except  she  first  wrote  a 
letter  to  her  father,  so  that  he  might  know  of  her  where- 
abouts in  any  case.  For  she  never  believed  in  her  heart 
that  the  separation  between  them  would  be  final,  build- 
ing always  on  the  idea  that  some  lucky  chance  would 
leave  Sir  Oliver  free  to  wed,  and  never  doubting  he  would 
do  so  at  the  first  possibility,  come  what  might ! 

The  unhappy  misconstruction  of  thought  and  motive- 
between  herself  and  her  foster-brother,  Eoger  Locke,  had 
made  her  apprehensive  lest  she  might  be  oversanguine 
in  this  hopeful  view  of  the  case.  Was  it  possible  that 
her  lawlessness  had  proved  unpardonable  in  her  father's 
eyes?  Was  it  the  knowledge  that  this  was  all  the 
message  he  could  bring  to  his  sister  that  had  hardened 
Koger's  heart  against  her,  and  set  his  face  and  made  his 
speech  cut  through  her  like  a  knife?  'No — no! — it  was 
nothing  but  the  boy's  harsh  mis  judgment  of  her  dear 
love,  that  would  have  ended  in  bloodshed;  but  that,  by 
God's  mercy,  a  thing  less  hard  to  bear,  though  cruel 
enough,  had  come  between  to  stop  it.  Yet  the  more 
her  mind  misgave  her  of  her  father's  bias  against  herself, 
the  more  resolved  she  was  to  let  no  chance  slip  to  bring 
him  into  touch  with  her  again.    So  she  went  to  her  room. 


62  'AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

— Sir  Oliver,  mind  you,  made  sure  she  did  not  go  about 
the  house — and  wrote  him  a  long  letter,  praying  again 
for  his  forgiveness,  free  of  the  condition  she  had  neither 
will  nor  heart  to  comply  with — that  of  leaving  her  life 
of  open  sin  and  returning  to  her  home.  For  that  is  how 
he  had  written  to  her,  saying  all  might  be  forgiven; 
and  for  his  part,  could  Sir  Oliver  free  himself  of  his  law- 
ful bond  of  matrimony,  he  would  receive  him  as  his  son 
as  though  nothing  had  happened,  villain  and  traitor  as  he 
held  him  to  be.  But  for  a  persistence  in  wrong-doing, 
which  he  called  hard  names  enough,  as  was  the  fashion 
in  those  days,  he  would  none  of  it.  Against  all  which 
this  letter  she  wrote  him,  as  he  lay  dead,  was  a  plea  and 
a  protest ;  and  she  was  well  an  hour  writing  it,  sometimes 
not  able  to  see  her  words  for  her  tears. 

But  that  letter  never  reached  the  Old  Hall.  Sir  Oliver 
took  good  care  of  that,  bearing  it  away  himself  with  a 
promise  it  should  go  at  the  earliest,  and  locking  it  in  a 
private  drawer,  in  case  on  his  return  it  should  prove  of 
value  towards  some  scheme  of  his  own  for  ill.  For  he 
knew  of  none  other.  After  which  he  hastened  back  to 
the  girl,  who  was  making  ready  to  ride,  and  escorted  her 
with  much  show  of  courtesy  to  where  the  horses  awaited 
them;  to  wit,  their  own  and  John  Rackham's,  and 
another  for  the  undergroom  in  charge  of  two  stout  nags 
with  pack-saddles,  such  as  one  may  still  see  even  now 
in  all  roadless  districts,  where  no  cart  or  coach  may  safely 
pass.  And  at  the  saddle-bow  of  each  of  the  men  were 
great  holster  pistols  for  defence. 

This  was  the  way  which  all  young  and  strong  people 
chose  for  travelling  in  the  days  of  this  story.  For  though 
our  forefathers  had  then  used  coaches  for  two  generations, 
and  one  or  two  stage-coaches  were  already  running — as 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  63 

between  London  and  Edinburgh — yet  these  were  so 
cumbrous  and  heavy  and  even  the  main  roads  so  bad  that 
none  who  could  back  a  horse  would  endure  the  jerk  and 
shaking  of  coach-wheels,  which  were  not  even  furnished, 
as  now,  with  suspenders  or  springs,  but  on  a  rigid  axle. 
So  that  old  folk  and  invalids  had  much  ado  to  travel  at 
all.  And  though  there  was  this  great  advantage,  that 
they  were  kept  in  one  spot,  and  unable  to  move  from 
place  to  place,  in  a  manner  unsettling  to  themselves  and 
all  their  belongings,  yet  when  it  was  matter  of  life  or 
death  to  get  quickly — for  example,  from  London  to 
Edinboro',  as  may  now  be  done  easily  in  six  days — it  was 
ill  for  him  that  was  no  equestrian.  For  unless  he  could 
cover  the  distance  afoot,  he  had  no  choice  but  to  ride  with 
the  mail  service  or  in  a  cart  or  waggon,  going  maybe  at 
a  speed  of  five  miles  an  hour  at  most,  over  roads  often 
impassable  from  water,  and  infested  with  outlaws  and 
thieves  of  every  sort.  So  that  such  slow-going  vehicles 
as  these  dared  not  pass  through  a  lonely  district  without 
a  sufficient  armed  escort.  And  even  then  there  was  never 
security  that  the  men  engaged  in  this  service  would  not 
themselves  be  in  league  with  malefactors,  either  turning 
boldly  to  ransack  the  pockets  and  portmanteaus  they  had 
undertaken  to  protect,  or  turning  tail  by  arrangement  at 
the  approach  of  accomplices,  not  to  lose  the  chance  of 
profiting  in  a  like  way  again.  But  from  such  as  these 
Sir  Oliver's  party  had  not  much  to  fear,  being  well  armed 
for  resistance;  besides  not  carrying  with  them  goods  of 
value,  such  as  would  be  thought  by  marauders  to  justify; 
the  risk  of  encountering  them. 

The  journey  to  Kips  Manor  was  all  but  a  four  days' 
ride,  though  had  there  been  no  woman  of  the  party  a 
few    hours    might    have    been    saved,    at   some    cost    in 


64  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

fatigue  to  horse  and  rider.  As  it  was,  the  last  day  was 
very  fatiguing  to  Lucinda ;  for  they  slept  under  a  roof 
on  the  three  first  nights  only,  and  on  this  last  night  lay 
out  on  the  fern  and  bracken  of  an  open  heath,  as  gipsies 
camp  even  nowadays  by  the  roadside.  But  though  she 
enjoyed  the  strangeness  and  novelty  of  this  free  life — 
for  a  summer  night  beneath  the  moon  and  stars  is  no  tax 
on  endurance,  but  rather  a  luxury — still,  .the  very  new- 
ness of  it  all  stood  between  her  and  sleep.  And  when 
they  made  ready  for  a  start  in  the  early  morning,  an 
hour  after  dawn,  this  weariness  made  itself  felt  of  a 
sudden;  and  never  was  a  woman  gladder  at  heart  than 
she  when  Sir  Oliver,  riding  at  her  side  along  an  upland 
of  smooth  pastures  skirting  a  wide  plain,  said  to  her 
that  its  far  horizon  was  the  sea,  that  could  be  seen  were 
it  not  for  the  mist.  But  the  mist  would  clear  as  the  sun 
mounted  in  the  heavens.  And  when  it  did  so,  the  gables 
of  the  old  Manor  House  stood  up  above  it,  and  it  had 
the  look  of  a  lake  or  flood  rising  as  high  as  the  dormer 
windows  of  the  roof.  Then  came  the  sun  in  greater 
strength,  and  the  mist  fell  away,  and  Lucinda  rejoiced 
to  see  how  close  at  hand  the  house  really  was. 

But  there  was  still  ground  to  cover,  and  at  the  end  of 
it  what  seemed  best  to  Lucinda  was  to  drink  a  cup  of 
milk  and  lie  down;  closing  door  and  window,  and  making 
it  night — or  the  nearest  that  might  be,  with  the  sounds 
of  the  daytime  without  to  testify  against  it. 

It  would  be  hard  to  say  which  weighed  most  \\jith  Sir 
Oliver  in  this  sudden  resolution  to  withdraw  Lucinda 
from  possible  communication  with  her  family — ^whether 
his  repugnance  to  speaking  of  her  father's  death  to  her, 
or  his  dread  that  she  should  hear  of  it  from  someone 
else.     Had   he  been  weary  of  her,   he  would  not  have 


AlSr  AFFAIK  Of  DISHONOR  65 

cared  a  straw — so,  at  least,  he  reasoned  with  himself — 
where  or  when  or  how  she  came  to  the  knowledge  of  it. 
But  just  for  now — perhaps  for  a  few  months  if  all  went 
well — he  would  not  have  Lucinda  hate  him.  She  would 
discard  her  father^s  murderer;  and  lie  wanted  to  discard 
her,  and  to  choose  his  time,  as  a  nobleman  might  then 
do  without  blame — nay,  may  do  still,  for  that  matter, 
not  only  without  shame  or  remorse,  but  even  with  some 
sense  of  plume  or  strut,  as  for  pride  of  an  achievement 
done.  And  what  could  serve  his  ends  better  than  a  couple 
of  months  at  Kips  Manor,  where  no  one  would  ever  follow 
them ;  and  where,  be  sure,  if  one  did,  he  need  never  see 
the  inside  of  the  great  boundary  wall,  except  he  climbed 
it  at  night.  And  in  that  case,  were  there  not  the  blood- 
hounds, bred  from  the  pair  his  father  had  brought  home 
from  Cuba?  He  would  see  to  it  that  they  were  loosed 
at  night.  But  at  this  thought  the  guilty  man  broke  into 
a  vexed  laugh  at  the  restlessness  of  his  own  conscience. 
Fancy  begging  and  borrowing  that  trouble!  Fancy 
dreaming  for  a  moment  that  any  living  creature  would 
ride  to  Kips  Manor  to  tell  a  piece  of  news  all  would  be- 
lieve to  be  Well  known  there  already!  All,  that  is  to  say, 
who  knew  of  this  visit  of  his  to  the  old  house,  and  of  his 
reason  for  going  there. 

This  disturbing  thought  had  found  him  alone,  as  he 
paced  to  and  fro  after  a  repast  Lucinda  had  not  shared, 
she  having  begged  to  be  left  undisturbed,  even  though 
she  slept  the  day  out.  If  he  got  quit  of  it,  it  was  less 
that  he  succeeded  in  laughing  himself  out  of  his  absurdity 
than  that  another  worse  than  itself  came  to  oust  it.  He 
had  lighted  his  pipe  filled  with  the  strong  Virginian 
tobacco  that  was  in  those  days  the  smoker's  only  resource. 
And  now  the  sting  of  the  smoke  was  painful  to  his  bitten 


66  'a:n  affaik  of  disho:n^or 

tongue,  that  was  slow  to  heal  of  itself,  and  the  worse  that 
they  had  fared  somewhat  roughly  on  the  journey,  though 
their  food  had  been  wholesome  enough  in  itself.  It 
brought  him  to  the  question: — Why  must  this  accursed 
malady  come  on  him  just  now,  of  all  times?  Had  he 
ever  experienced  a  symptom  of  the  like  before?  Never, 
in  his  memory;  that  he  could  swear  to!  But  was  there 
no  nurse's  tale  he  could  recall?  Had  his  mother  told 
him  nothing?    .    .    . 

There — at  the  word !  Again  that  hideous  dream  of  the 
morning  of  the  duel!  Could  he  never  shake  free  from 
it? — would  this  go  on  for  ever?  Was  he  always  to  be 
the  dupe  and  slave  of  his  own  illusions? 

Then  followed  one  of  those  strange  phases  of  mind  we 
all  knew  so  well,  in  which  all  that  is  around  us  seems  to 
have  been  there  before,  at  some  time  we  cannot  fix,  try 
how  we  may.  All  men  seem  to  know  of  this  freak  of 
perception,  but  none  to  find  a  pleasure  in  it,  if  we  may 
judge  by  the  common  speech  of  those  who  have  experi- 
enced it.  Sir  Oliver  very  surely  found  none,  but  rather 
the  pain  some  say  is  always  present  in  the  mind  of  de- 
mented folk.  And  this  all  the  more  that  the  thing 
seemed  to  connect  itself  with  that  ugly  dream  of  his,  and 
both  with  that  pause  in  the  duel  when  the  seconds  had 
spoken  a  moment  apart.  He  knew  not  which  of  the  three 
he  was  thinking  of. 

But  it  passed  away  in  a  moment — the  whole  phantasy! 
Yet  it  left  behind  it  a  disposition  on  Sir  Oliver's  part  to 
allow  ideas  he  would  at  another  time  have  condemned 
as  mere  draff  and  superstition  to  take  possession  of  his 
mind.  How  if  there  were  truth  in  the  legends  of  men 
possessed  by  evil  spirits,  whose  outward  symptoms  seemed 
so  disastrously  like  his  own,  as  Lucinda  had  described 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  67i 

it  to  him?  Had  we  not  assurance  of  Holj  Writ  that 
demoniacs  were  so  possessed,  and  that  the  fiend  had  been 
cast  out  by  our  Lord  Himself,  and  even  by  others  less 
than  He,  whose  power  might  not  compare  with  His  ?  For 
this  Oliver  had  been  well  grounded  in  his  youth  in  all 
that  was  needful  for  the  practice  of  his  ancestors'  faith, 
though,  indeed,  that  faith  had  only  been  of  service  to  him 
thus  far,  that  had  he  not  known  it  he  had  been  at  a  sore 
strait  for  blasphemy — a  thing  congenial  to  him,  and  very 
essential  to  his  bearing  as  a  man  of  fashion.  But  here 
in  this  lonely  garden,  with  no  gay  companions  for  inter- 
change of  wit,  he  fell  a  prey  to  nervous  and  unruly  fan- 
cies ;  and  the  more  he  dwelt  upon  and  brooded  over  them 
the  worse  they  grew,  till  he  was  half-minded  to  go  to 
Lucinda's  room,  and  rouse  her,  and  make  her  come  forth 
and  be  merry  to  please  him.  But  he  refrained,  wishing 
her  to  be  at  her  best  when  darkness  came.  For  this  was 
the  way  he  treated  women,  doing  all  he  might,  without 
overmuch  trouble  to  himself,  to  keep  them  cheerful,  bril- 
liant, and  beautiful,  for  his  own  sake.  In  doing  which  he 
no  doubt  studied  in  a  sense  their  happiness,  just  as  it 
might  be  said  that  he  studied  also  the  happiness  of  his 
horse.  But  when  at  last  his  horse  failed  him,  or  got 
spavin  or  wind-gall,  or  broke  his  knees,  he  would  turn 
him  forth  to  the  knacker  without  remorse,  unless  he 
thought  there  was  still  service  in  him  for  farm-work,  or 
cart,  or  dray.  And  the  like  held  good,  in  its  degree,  when 
women  were  in  question,  and  no  lesser  beasts  of  burden. 

So  he  hung  about  chafing  and  finding  fault  with  the 
old  woman,  Madge  Hatsell,  who  had  charge  of  the  house 
in  his  absence,  and  who,  having  been  nowise  prepared  for 
his  coming,  had  been  hard  put  to  it  to  make  a  show  of  any 
reception  for  Lucinda.    But  her  master  rated  her  soundly; 


68  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

— although,  indeed,  her  success,  considering  the  circum- 
stances, deserved  rather  praise  than  blame — saying  it  was 
her  duty  to  keep  the  house  in  constant  readiness  for  occu- 
pation, and  that  he  looked  to  find  it  so  even  if  he  should 
come  unexpectedly  at  midnight.  It  may  be  this  injustice 
was  of  small  importance,  seeing  the  old  woman  was  all 
but  stone-deaf — at  least,  seemed  well  able  to  affect  deaf- 
ness, if  she  were  not. 

The  household,  on  their  arrival,  was  at  its  fewest — ^in 
fact,  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  but  this  old  woman, 
a  girl,  and  a  gardener.  Other  servants  were  at  hand, 
though  not  in  the  near  neighbourhood,  having  to  be 
summoned  from  distances  of  three  or  four  miles  or  more 
to  make  up  such  a  retinue  as  becomes  a  gentleman's 
house  in  the  country;  but  these  were  wanted  only  during 
the  occasional  visits  of  Sir  Oliver,  the  house  being  at 
other  times  unused.  It  was  not  from  want  of  will  to 
have  it  tenanted, "  and  bringing  a  good  rent,  that  Sir 
Oliver  Lad  acquiesced  in  its  present  condition,  he  having, 
as  well  as  his  father  before  him,  sought  to  find  an  occupant. 
But  one  would  not  close  his  bargain  for  one  reason, 
another  for  another.  For  one  it  was  too  large,  for 
another  too  low  down.  Another  would  have  it  built 
with  the  side  now  to  the  east  looking  to  the  south,  and 
yet  another,  who  would  not  at  the  last  moment  sign  a 
lease  that  had  been  prepared  with  much  disputation, 
having  deferred  his  signature  till  he  had  made  trial  of 
the  house  by  living  in  it  for  a  week,  decided  that  the 
easterly  wind  off  the  sea  blew  too  strong  o'  nights,  and 
no  sleep  could  be  in  it  for  the  howling  thereof  and  the 
sound  of  waves  confronted  by  a  long  breastwork  of 
shingle  less  than  a  mile  away.  Also,  he  made  complaint 
of  certain  birds  that  would  not  be  content  to  fly  across 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  69 

the  flats  without  a  strange  cry  that  gave  him  discomfort, 
as  he  judged  it  by  the  sound  to  betoken  pain.  Which 
made  Lucinda  wonder  how  folk  can  differ  so  in  their 
conceits  of  this  and  that,  for  this  same  cry  became  so 
great  a  joy  to  her  ears  that  she  would  listen  for  it  in  the 
solitude,  and  was  ill-pleased  that  Sir  Oliver  had  not  the 
same  love  for  it,  calling  it  a  tuneless  screech,  and  the  bird 
a  sea-cob,  and  condemning  it  as  useless  for  food,  except 
it  were  for  the  eggs.  But  it  was  otherwise  with  the 
little  terns,  or  sea-swallows,  that  were  plentiful  on  these 
coasts,  for  the  flesh  of  these  he  accounted  a  delicacy. 


CHAPTEE  V 

In  those  days  the  General  Post  Office  had  but  recently 
been  established,  and  its  operations  were  confined  to  the 
delivery  of  letters  in  market-towns  at  the  most.  Those 
who  dwelt  in  remote  villages,  or,  worse  still,  in  isolated 
houses,  very  far  from  any  town,  like  Kips  Manor,  could 
only  hope  to  receive  letters  by  special  messenger,  unless 
they  expected  nothing  better  than  the  slow  delivery  by 
carriers,  whose  cumbrous  waggons  crawled  from  village 
to  village  over  roads  that  often  proved  impassable  from 
stress  of  weather,  even  in  the  summer  months  causing 
delay  of  days,  or  even  weeks.  Sometimes,  however,  in 
case  of  such  extreme  delay,  a  horseman  would  be  found 
who  for  a  prospect  of  reward  would  carry  the  lighter  mails 
on  and  deliver  them  at  places  off  the  route  or  at  known 
houses  of  call  by  the  way. 

At  the  end  of  the  third  week  of  her  life  at  Kips  Manor 
Lucinda  began  to  watch  for  a  letter  from  her  father,  and 
to  wonder  none  came.  Surely,  she  thought,  her  fault — 
grievous  as  she  was  ready  to  think  it — ^was  not  such  that 
it  should  cancel  all  love  of  a  father  such  as  hers  for  any 
daughter,  however  much  she  were  to  blame.  And  see! 
— she  had  loved  him  well.  Was  it  not  so?  ^o — it  was 
impossible  that  he  should  not  write — ^mere  silence  would 
be  cruel.  She  could  not  believe,  try  how  she  might,  that 
that  letter  of  hers  could  remain  unanswered.  And  yet — 
no  answer  came ! 

So  long  as  the  shortness  of  the  time  forbade  any  answer 
but  one  borne  by  a  special  messenger,  she  was  at  peace; 

70 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE  71 

even  more  so  that  the  distance  between  them  had  marked 
out  a  period  in  which  no  letter  could  come,  miracle  apart. 
But  when  this  time  had  lapsed,  and  thereto  such  as  might 
reasonably  have  been  needed  for  a  letter  to  reach  her 
through  the  existing  channels  of  communication,  her 
restlessness  grew  and  grew.  And  though  she  knew  how 
ill  it  would  be  for  her  to  give  offence  to  the  man  on 
whom  she  knew  herself  to  be  so  terribly  dependent,  yet 
she  must  either  risk  speech  with  him  about  this  or  go 
mad.  For  who  else  was  there,  with  whom  she  could 
speak  ? 

It  was  then  in  the  fifth  week  of  this  strange  lonely 
residence  in  what  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a 
wilderness — at  least,  so  far  as  almost  total  privation  of 
human  intercourse  can  make  a  wilderness — that  Lucinda 
resolved,  even  should  she  risk  his  anger,  to  speak  of  this 
uneasiness  of  hers  to  Sir  Oliver.  The  place  was  the  sea- 
beach,  over  a  mile  from  the  house,  and  the  hour  was 
after  sundown.  For  the  great  heat  had  kept  them 
within  doors  through  the  day,  and  now  the  evening  was 
cool,  and  the  air  off  the  sea  sweet  in  the  lungs,  and  the 
plash  of  little  waves  sweet  to  hear,  whereof  each  one 
seemed  to  be  the  last,  and  a  fit  herald  of  perfect  silence. 
"  Sweetheart  Oliver,"  said  she,  ^^  my  father  writes  not." 
Sir  Oliver  cleared  his  voice  to  make  way  for  his  words ; 
then  in  his  artificial  way,  speaking  as  of  some  third  per- 
son, answered  thus :  ^^  What  matters  it  to  my  Lucinda 
that  her  father  writes  not  to  scold  his  wanton  little  daugh- 
ter, and  to  summon  her  away,  from  the  side  of  her  lawless 
lover  ?  "  For  this  was  the  gay  way  of  Sir  Oliver,  a  light- 
some affectation  of  acknowledgment  of  wrong-doing  that 
would  be  candid  about  it  were  the  offence  never  so  trivial. 
'But  his  levity  sat  ill  upon  him  to-night,  and  his  eyes  never 


T2  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOR 

met  Lucinda's,  that  were  fixed  on  him  there  in  the  moon- 
light, watching  how  white  he  grew. 

Then  she,  noting  that  he  had  failed  to  achieve  a 
would-be  carelessness  of  manner,  but  loth  to  ascribe  an  ill 
motive  to  him,  cried  out  aloud :  "  Oh,  Oliver,  tell  me 
truth !  Has  a  letter  come  from  him  that  you  are  keeping 
back  from  me?  If  that  be  so,  tell  me  of  it,  and  let  me 
read  it,  even  if  I  wince  in  the  reading.  Give  it  me, 
Oliver — give  it  me !  " 

When  lies  are  afoot  it  is  sweet  to  have  a  word  or  two 
of  truth  to  speak,  and  a  mighty  ease  to  the  conscience. 
Sir  Oliver's  voice  came  forth  freely  to  say :  "  Xo,  Lucinda 
mine!  I  give  thee  my  honour  for  it,  there  has  been  no 
letter."  Then,  for  a  moment,  the  taste  of  truth  was  in 
his  mouth;  but  it  was  all  the  truth  he  had  to  tell.  He 
would  not  spoil  it  by  a  lie,  and  was  silent. 

"  Oliver,  there  has  been  something !  You  are  keeping 
something  from  me.     Tell  it  me  now — now !  " 

"  What  ails  the  wench  that  she  should  cry  out  so  of  a 
sudden?  No,  Lucy  Crazypate,  there  has  been  neither 
letter  nor  aught  else  to  tell  you  of.  Leave  your  in- 
tractable parent  to  himself  to  come  round  as  he  may,  and 
be  at  peace !  "  For  though  he  thought  to  himself,  "  Shall 
I  speak  fairly  and  tell  her  all  ?  " — there  was  that  in  his 
heart  which  said :  "  Try  to  speak.  Thou  canst  not !  " 
So  he  was  forced  back  on  the  blank  stupidity  of  blind 
falsehood.  Yet  he  had  but  little  difficulty  to  speak  it. 
He  had  sealed  his  pact  with  the  Devil,  and  looked  to 
him   for  help. 

She  answered  his  lie  with  her  truth.  "  I  will  be  at 
peace,  dear  love,  even  though  no  letter  comes.  I  will 
be  all  thou  would'st  have  me  be.  But  will  you  not  tell 
me  more  ?    Is  there  no  word  of  my  father  to  be  told  that 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK  73 

vou  know,  and  are  keeping  back  ?  "  Then,  always  in  fear 
that  she  might  somehow  ruffle  Sir  Oliver's  temper,  and 
so  provoke  a  return  of  his  malady,  she  kissed  him  tenderly, 
drawing  his  face  to  her  lips,  as  she  readily  might.  For  he 
was  a  man  of  no  great  stature,  though  built  strongly,  and 
broad,  while  she  was  of  a  full  height  for  a  woman  of 
twenty,  but  slender,  and  in  all  things  gracious  and  deli- 
cate; so  that  anyone  would  have  said  who  saw  them  that 
it  was  their  unlikeness  had  brought  them  together.  But 
such  a  one  w^ould  have  wondered  at  the  roughness  of  his 
speech  in  reply,  seeing  no  cause  for  it. 

^^  Have  I  not  told  thee,  silly  girl  ?  What  reason,  think 
you,  should  I  have  to  speak  untruthfully  ?  "  Then,  with 
the  thought  in  his  mind  that  each  word  he  said  made  it 
harder  to  be  truthful  in  the  end :  ^^Your  father  may  well 
have  written,  and  his  letter  be  lost  on  the  way.  Let  be, 
and  be  patient  till  a  letter  comes.  How  can  it  be  known, 
I  ask  you,  that  he  has  not  written  ? "  And  in  this, 
though,  of  couri:»j,  she  could  not  understand  it  so,  he  was, 
as  it  were,  pleading  with  empty  air  for  a  right  to  false- 
hood. He  resented  the  invasion  of  his  secrecy  by  the 
pert  readiness  of  a  mere  girl.  Who  else  had  told  the 
facts,  that  suspicion  should  touch  the  mind  of  Lucinda? 
Only  he  himself  knew  them,  for  John  Rackham  would  be 
silent ;  and  had  he  not  a  right  to  his  reserve  ? 

But  she,  catching  this  half-resentment  in  his  voice,  and 
all  alive  to  her  fear  of  his  terrible  disorder,  pressed  him 
for  no  further  answer.  Her  arm  was  in  his  or  about  his 
neck  as  they  lingered  easily  on  the  smooth  footways  of 
flat  sea-sand,  though  now  and  again  they  walked  apart 
on  the  shingly  intervals,  crushing  the  pebbles  underfoot. 
*^  What  an  accursed  noise  these  stones  make !  "  said  Sir 
Oliver. 


Yi  a:n  affair  of  dishonor 

But  Lucinda  was  on  the  side  of  the  stones.  What 
could  Sir  Discontent  ask  better  than  such  a  pretty  music 
to  be  made  by  his  great  clumsy  feet?  And  look,  too,  at 
the  little  sparks  of  frayed  moonlight  that  the  foam  had 
churned,  and  that  had  floated  away  into  the  dark  water. 
They  would  stick  on  one's  hands,  and  gleam  in  the  dark. 
But  Sir  Oliver,  though  he  laughed  about  his  heavy  tread, 
and  was  less  morose,  would  have  it  these  were  nothing 
but  the  corruption  of  a  dead  fish,  and  not  over-wholesome 
to  be  handled.  He  desired  that  Lucinda  should  not  stoop 
at  the  water's  edge  to  catch  up  the  foam  and  run  it 
through  her  fingers,  for  there  might  be  danger  therein. 
At  which  she  laughed  merrily,  and  did  it  all  the  more. 
For  it  had  been  an  ease  to  her  mind  only  to  have  spoken 
aloud  about  her  father,  even  though  what  she  said  and 
what  he  answered  had  left  her  none  the  wiser. 

But  this  talk  affected  him  otherwise,  as  he  knew  now 
that  the  gloom  of  a  constant  secrecy  must  settle  on  him. 
Every  hour  that  passed  must  make  it  harder  to  tell 
Lucinda  of  her  father's  death.  He  reproached  himself 
that  he  had  not  had  the  courage  to  speak  at  first  that 
day  in  the  garden.  He  might  then  have  confessed  all, 
affecting  a  keen  remorse  for  the  outcome  of  a  challenge 
he,  as  a  man  of  honour,  had  no  choice  but  to  accept. 
He  might  have  laid  the  whole  thing  to  an  accident,  say- 
ing that  he  had  never  dreamed  that  a  man  so  much  older 
than  himself  could  make  such  indomitable  sword-play 
that  it  should  be  difficult  for  him,  past-master  that  he 
was  of  swordsmanship,  to  disarm  such  an  opponent,  or 
disable  him  by  some  slight  wound,  or  end  the  quarrel  on 
some  technical  pretext  of  satisfied  honour.  But  the 
chance  was  gone  now — the  chance  there  was  then  for  a 
show   of   uncontrollable   grief — of   an   affectation   which 


'AN  AFFAIR  OP  DISHONOR  75 

would  have  given  it  to  him  to  mix  his  tears  with  hers 
over  a  father's  grave.  It  had  come  to  this  now — ^that 
all  that  was  left  him  was  to  cling  to  the  hope  that  he 
might  cease  to  care  about  this  woman  in  any  way  before 
the  news  of  the  misadventure — as  his  speech  to  himself 
began  to  call  it — should  reach  her  ears.  That  he  should 
be  able,  in  short,  to  keep  her  in  ignorance  until  he  had 
wearied  of  her,  and  another  might  fill  her  place.  Then 
he  would  do  her  no  wrong,  but  would  act  as  any  other 
man  of  fashion  and  spirit  would  do — pass  her  on  to  a 
friend  the  richer  by  a  profuse  outlay  on  jewellery  for  her 
person.  Oh  no! — there  should  be  no  injustice  to  Lucinda 
through  him. 

But  how  the  thought  we  choose  and  fancy  ojir  own 
hates  the  intrusion  of  the  thought  we  have  no  choice  in! 
Through  all  that  was  articulate  in  this  speech  of  his  mind 
there  would  come  creeping,  creeping,  a  something  .  .  . 
was  it  a  misgiving,  or  was  it  a  conviction  ?  .  .  .  a  thing 
ambiguous  in  all  but  that  it  was  a  discomfort.  He  had 
never  heard  it  so  plainly,  seen  it  or  felt  it  so  clearly,  as 
on  this  evening  when  he  stood  watching  the  girFs  figure 
against  the  restless  silver  of  the  sea  below  the  moon. 
The  music  of  her  laugh,  slighting  his  injunction ;  its  rich 
and  joyous  expansion  as  she  sprang  back,  drenched,  from 
a  rush  the  sea  made  to  embrace  her  feet,  till  the  sweet 
night  air  seemed  the  sweeter  for  it  as  for  a  nightingale's 
in  its  hour  of  joy,  had  such  power  over  him  that  he  in  a 
manner  feared  or  resented  its  mastery.  Often  had  he 
said  to  himself  that  hers  was  a  sameness  he  should  not 
weary  of  lightly,  but  he  had  always  taken  the  period  of 
her  charm  for  granted.  And  there  was  in  this  new  phase 
of — suppose  we  call  it — his  interest  in  Lucinda  at  least  a 
doubt  whether   it   might   not   outlast   his  power   or   his 


76  AlSr  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

chances  of  keeping  her  in  ignorance  of  her  father's  death. 
It  was  strange  that  it  should  be  so.  Think  how  soon 
Jess  and  Kate  and  Sue  had  given  all  they  had  to  give, 
and  he  had  tired  of  them  and  flung  them  away,  much  as 
a  child  discards  the  toy  it  cares  to  possess  no  longer! 

So  the  days  passed,  and  no  letter  came.  Then  one  day, 
when  a  driving  small  rain  kept  them  within  doors,  and 
there  was  sad  lack  of  employment  or  pastime,  this  Sir 
Oliver,  more  for  an  easement  to  his  own  conscience,  or  it 
may  be  to  convince  him  of  his  power  over  the  part  he  had 
to  play,  than  from  any  gracious  pity  for  Lucinda,  must 
needs  say :  "  Never  look  so  sad,  sweet  Lucy ;  for  I  tell 
thee  this — I  am  of  the  mind  to  think  that  letter  never 
reached  the  Old  Hall,  nor  your  father.  So  hearten  up, 
my  lass,  and  write  him  another,  and  John  Rackham  shall 
ride  with  it  to  the  Cobbler  with  Two  Wives,  where  the 
post  calls  towards  the  end  of  the  month  for  letters. '' 

"  Why,  sweetheart,  should  not  the  letter  I  wrote  reach 
the  Old  Hall?" 

"  Because,  my  Lucy,  the  floods  would  be  slow  to  dry, 
and  it  was  said  the  bridge  was  wrecked.  Many  a  slip 
'twixt  cup  and  lip  may  be  for  wayfarers  across  a  flooded 
country, — take  my  word  for  it !  So  sit  thee  down,  wench, 
and  write  another,  and  may  it  have  better  luck !  " 

"  Lend  me  your  little  knife  that  cuts  so  well,  to  make 
a  new  nib  for  my  letter  to  my  father.''  That  was  what  she 
said  in  reply ;  and  her  voice  was  happy  to  Sir  Oliver's  ear, 
though  it  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  his  heart.  But  he 
must  play  his  part  out  now — not  spoil  all  by  sickly 
cowardice.  There  was  the  knife,  and  there  a  new  quill, 
and  though  there  was  no  ink  in  the  stand,  it  was  to  hand 
in  the  little  bottle  on  the  shelf.  For  however  few  folk 
dwelt  in  this  house,  it  was  well  furnished  in  all  needs  of  a 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOlsTOR  77 

household  from  cellar  to  garret.  There  was  paper,  too, 
of  divers  sorts  in  plenty,  and  dust  of  puff-balls  to  drink 
up  the  ink,  and  chaff-wax. 

"  Thou  canst  make  a  new  pen  better  than  I,  good 
Oliver,  that  I  may  write  plain  and  clear  my  letter  to  my 
father.  Take  the  knife  and  the  quill,  and  God  speed  th;^ 
cutting !  " 

But  the  cutting  prospered  ill.  Why  should  Sir  Oliver's 
hand  be  thus  awkward  ?  Lucinda  wondered ;  then  feared 
this  was  a  part  of  the  malady.  Had  he  not  rather  prided 
himself  once — at  her  father's  house  when  she  knew  him 
first — on  his  skill  from  a  schoolboy  in  this  art  of  pen- 
cutting?  Indeed,  Lucinda  had  wondered  that  he  made 
no  proffer  of  his  services  at  the  outset.  ISTow  his  hand 
was  awkward,  though  it  shook  not;  and  he  muttered 
impatiently — ^muttered  the  beginnings  of  curses.  Then 
in  the  end  he  flung  the  spoiled  quill  away,  irritably,  and 
bade  Lucinda  try  her  fortune  on  a  new  one.  From  which 
task  she,  looking  up  furtively,  could  see  his  face  white  and 
hard  and  fixed;  and  once  a  twitching  of  the  lips  and 
mouth,  though  he  covered  it  with  a  contrived  laugh  as  he 
met  her  eye. 

But  she  was  by  then  keen  upon  her  letter,  and  gave  the 
less  attention  to  things  of  this  sort;  though  she  still 
feared  they  might  be  a  part  of  the  affliction  that  had  fallen 
upon  him.  So  she  settled  down  to  write,  gaining  in 
beauty  as  her  face  grew  in  earnestness  from  the  words 
she  wrote;  and  so  on  through  page  after  page,  Sir  Oliver 
watching  her  askant  from  where  he  sat  apart,  sidelong  on 
a  chair  that  had  a  low  back  to  it,  with  a  hand  restless 
on  the  carvings  thereof.  Only  the  scratching  of  the  busy 
pen,  that  seemed  to  know  no  cause  for  hesitation,  broke 
in  upon  the  silence. 


78  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

Sir  Oliver  sat  and  watched  the  writer,  but  glancing 
round  at  her,  as  though  he  flinched  from  an  honest  gaze, 
untn  he  saw  by  some  chance  that  a  tear  ran  bright  on  her 
writing  hand,  and  she  brushed  it  off  with  the  other.  Then 
it  seemed  as  though  she  drew  breath  with  a  shiver,  and 
thereto  bit  back  a  sob,  AVhereupon,  rising  and  wrapping 
closer  round  him  the  silk-embroidered  morning-gown  he 
wore,  as  was  his  custom,  he  went  away  silently  to  the 
window,  to  look  forth  on  the  squally  weather  and  the 
rain-drift.  And  she,  being  deep  in  the  wording  of  her 
tale,  took  no  notice  of  his  doing  so;  but  thought  hard, 
her  face  being  bright  through  all  her  tears  as  though  what 
she  had  succeeded  in  saying  pleased  her.  But  had  she 
seen  him  more  closely,  she  might  have  shuddered  to  note 
the  new  twitching  of  his  lips,  and  how  he  closed  his  teeth 
on  his  thumb  as  though  he  would  have  crushed  it.  He  was 
close  shaven,  and  his  hair,  no  longer  cropped  short  for  ac- 
commodation of  his  peruke,  which  he  was  not  wearing 
now,  was  all  in  disorder;  also  his  face  was  discoloured, 
the  pallor  of  it  coming  and  going,  in  patches.  So  he 
looked  not  his  best  as  he  turned  to  take  the  letter  from 
Lucinda,  when  he  heard  her  finish  it. 

"  Give  me  the  letter,  sweetest  Lucy,"  said  he — and  his 
voice  had  a  mock  ring  of  false  courtesy,  such  that  none 
but  a  woman  besotted  with  her  passion  for  him  could 
have  loved  him  through  it.  But  Lucinda's  ears  heard 
it,  and  no  fault  found! 

"  It  has  not  the  seal  yet,  Oliver ;  and  I  cannot  have 
you  read  it,  good  man !  It  would  make  thee  vainer  than 
thou  art  already,  to  know  what  I  have  written  in  this 
letter.  I  am  in  earnest,  dear  love !  "  But  she  trusted  him 
with  the  letter,  too,  kissing  him  as  she  gave  it.  The  truth 
is  she  had  little  choice  but  to  hand  it  to  him  open;  for 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  79 

though  the  wax  was  there,  and  a  taper,  it  was  no  matter  of 
a  moment,  nor  the  raising  of  a  finger,  to  get  a  taper 
lighted  in  those  days. 

Sir  Oliver,  however,  was  complaisant,  giving  his  word 
that  he  would  not  read  a  line  of  the  letter,  since  she 
wished  it,  and  saying  he  would  see  to  the  proper  sealing 
of  it.  And  thereon  he  carried  it  away,  taking  also  with 
him  the  chaff-wax  as  though  to  do  it  promptly  in  the 
kitchen,  or  elsewhere  where  there  was  fire.  But  after  a 
short  absence  he  returned  with  the  letter  still  unsealed, 
saying  he  had  told  old  Madge  to  bring  a  light  forthwith, 
and  what  need  had  the  old  sluggard  to  dawdle  by  the 
way?  But  she  came  at  the  moment,  bearing  a  hand- 
lamp  for  oil,  and  much  concerned  that  it  should  not  be 
blown  out  by  the  wind,  which  came  in  great  gusts,  and 
seemed  in  no  difiiculty  to  find  its  way  into  the  house. 
But  she  had  no  mishap  in  lighting  the  little  red  wax  taper 
on  the  writing-table,  and  went  her  way  with  her  lamp, 
which  was  a  slovenly  and  dirty  affair,  not  fitted  for  the 
use  of  gentlefolk. 

Then  says  Sir  Oliver  to  Lucinda,  that  she  was  to  im- 
print the  seal  on  the  melted  wax,  as  soon  as  he  should  have 
made  a  careful  pool  of  it ;  yet  not  until  he  should  give  the 
signal.  And  so  it  was  done,  and  her  hand  was  lovely  in 
the  doing  of  it,  and  sweetly  tender  to  the  touch  as  it  met 
his  by  chance.  Then  again  he  felt  that  doubt  of  how,  or 
when,  or  where  he  should  tire  of  this  woman,  and  be  ready 
to  thrust  her  from  him. 

But  she  gives  him  little  time  to  think  this  over.  For, 
being  now  in  great  spirits  that  she  has  written  her  letter, 
and  it  is  to  go,  she  is  clamouring  aloud  that  she  herself 
shall  use  the  taper  and  the  wax  for  the  second  seal,  and 
will  have  her  way.    Nor  does  her  villain  gainsay  her,  for 


80  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

he  knows  the  one  seal  has  closed  the  letter  heyond  reopen- 
ing; and  he  has  a  reason  to  be  glad  of  this,  as  shall  soon 
be  told  in  this  story. 

So  Lucinda  burns  the  wax  liberally,  heedless  of  its 
cost — ^for  it  was  not  cheap  in  those  days  as  now — and 
more  from  undue  haste  than  any  mere  unsteadiness  of 
hand  she  drops  it  at  random  on  the  paper,  so  that  more 
than  one  spot  lies  outside  the  seal  it  should  have  been  a 
part  of.  At  this  Lucinda  is  well  satisfied,  saying  these 
blots  of  red  wax  be  kisses  she  sends  her  father,  for  all 
they  look  so  like  drops  of  blood.  But  she  then  looks  up, 
saying,  "  What  ails  thee,  my  Oliver  ? "  For  a  gasp  had 
come  from  him  as  of  a  man  caught  by  a  sudden  pain,  but 
one  that  stays  not;  catching  him  unawares,  else  he  had 
been  silent  on  it. 

"  What  should  ail  me  ? ''  is  all  he  says,  but  peevishly. 
Then  he  takes  the  letter  from  her,  and  goes  forth  to  give 
it  to  John  Rackham,  who  is  to  ride  with  it  to  the  place 
of  call.  But  this  groom's  training  has  made  of  him  a 
perfect  servant;  for  when  he  looks — as  all  do  who  are 
charged  to  carry  letters — at  the  direction  on  the  cover,  and 
knows  that  he  is  bearing  a  letter  to  a  dead  man,  his  face 
says  no  more  of  his  thought  than  the  back  of  your  tomb- 
stone or  mine  will  one  day  say,  whatever  be  incised  upon 
the  front.  And  Sir  Oliver  felt  the  stronger  to  the  end 
of  his  own  concealments,  from  the  strength  of  this  man's 
example.  If  only  he,  too,  could  keep  as  free  of  gesture 
or  expression  as  some  great  fish  in  a  tank,  all  would  go 
well  for  his  own  needs !  So  thought  Sir  Oliver ;  and  then 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  ease  himself  of  an  unwelcome 
association.  For  this  trope  of  the  fish  had  brought  back 
a  thing  he  hoped  to  have  forgotten,  and  he  had  again  to 
fight  against   a  memory  of  that  unearthly  dream — the 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIN^OR  81* 

dream  this  story  told  at  the  outset — and  its  intrusion 
into  other  agonizing  memories  that  were  actual,  until  he 
felt  as  though  he  scarce  knew  which  was  which,  nor  true 
from  false.  And  this  doubt  was  amazingly  more  painful 
than  any  memory  taken  alone.  For  nothing  is  more 
painful  to  the  mind  than  a  doubt  of  its  own  soundness. 

And  then,  going  back  to  Lucinda,  and  coming  once  more 
within  the  range  of  her  sweet  life,  sweet  although  he  was 
part  of  it,  he  was  again  face  to  face  with  that  other 
perplexity,  the  knowledge  that  that  life  of  hers  wove 
itself,  at  every  hour  of  the  day,  more  closely  into  his 
own;  and  yet  that  when  the  moment  came  that  she 
should  know  him  for  her  father's  slayer,  the  warp  and 
woof  of  the  fabric  must  be  rent  asunder,  at  what  cost  to 
either  who  could  guess  ?  For  Love  has  no  more  business 
in  a  heart  choked  with  sensuality  and  sin  than  blush-rose 
and  honeysuckle  in  a  garden  choked  by  an  undergrowth 
of  poisonous  weeds. 

Why  was  it  this  Oliver  felt  glad  that  this  first  seal  was 
safe  against  reopening?  Because,  wishing  that  the  letter 
should  seem  to  be  despatched,  but  also  that  none  of  her 
people  should  know  Lucinda's  whereabouts,  he  had  hit 
upon  a  device  to  attain  both  ends.  Having  secured  the 
letter  under  pretext  that  he  would  seal  it  elsewhere,  he 
had  borne  it  away  out  of  sight,  and  quickly  finding  that 
nothing  written  within  the  covering  sheet  would  tell  where 
it  had  been  written,  had  removed  all  the  letter  itself, 
substicutiiig  a  like  number  of  blank  sheets,  and  had  then 
carried  it  back  to  its  unsuspicious  writer  to  be  sealed  and 
sent.  Wherefore  he  felt  at  ease  that  her  father's  death 
was  likely  to  remain  unknown  to  Lucinda  for  a  long  time 
to  come,  although  in  the  end  it  must  needs  be  known. 
But  that  might  be  far  off  yet. 


CHAPTEE  VI 

The  young  undergroom,  who  had  accompanied  the  party 
from  Croxley  Hall,  rode  back  two  days  later,  taking  with 
him  the  packhorses  laden  with  sundry  goods  Sir  Oliver 
desired  to  send  there,  and  leaving  Lucinda's  wardrobe ;  for 
the  carriage  of  which  on  her  return  other  horses  would  be 
purchased,  such  useful  beasts  being  cheap  in  this  district, 
but  very  easy  to  sell  at  a  good  price  near  Sir  Oliver's 
home.  There  had  been  no  man  at  Kips  Manor  on  their 
arrival,  the  old  gardener  having  fallen  ill,  and  gone  to  live 
at  his  daughter's,  five  miles  away,  where  the  air  was  good 
for  rheumatism.  In  fact,  there  was  no  one  at  all  in  the 
house  but  the  old  woman,  Martha  Hatsell,  and  a  girl 
Elspeth,  who  did  what  rough  work  there  was ;  there  being 
indeed  but  little  in  the  way  of  scouring  and  cleaning  to 
be  done,  owing  to  the  freedom  from  dust  and  dirt,  for 
both  were  nearly  unknown.  This  girl  left  in  the  course 
of  a  day  or  two,  to  give  help  at  the  farm  of  Dame  Hatsell's 
son-in-law,  some  seven  miles  off,  as  a  substitute  for  the 
old  woman's  daughter,  Susan  Trant,  whom  Sir  Oliver  had 
spoken  of  when  he  said  Lucinda  should  be  at  no  loss  for 
a  tirewoman.  Susan  was  not  so  attached  to  her  life  with 
this  yeoman  farmer  as  to  scruple  at  any  time  to  come 
away  from  home  to  help  in  the  household  of  Kips  Manor 
when  Sir  Oliver  came  on  a  visit.  She  had  been  a  beauty, 
as  a  girl ;  so  at  least  thought  Lucinda,  as  she  watched  the 
face  mirrored  above  her  own  during  her  time  of  hair- 
dressing.     She  guessed  its  age  at  about  thirty-six, 

82 


A:N"  AFFAIK  of  DISHOISTOK  83 

"  Has  your  mother  always  been  so  deaf  as  now  ? " 
Thus  Lucinda  one  day  to  this  Susan,  just  to  make  talk, 
as  she  sat  and  enjoyed  the  combing  of  her  own  great 
length  of  rich  black  hair  before  the  mirror,  noting  idly 
that  the  hand  that  holds  the  comb  is  not  unlike  her  own, 
some  allowance  being  made  for  age  and  rougher  use  in 
life. 

"  Yes,  my  lady !    Ever  as  deaf  as  now." 

"From  childhood?" 

"  She  hath  told  me  so  herself." 

"  And  how  should  you  know  otherwise,  Susan  Trant  ? 
How  indeed  ?  But  your  mother  is  not  deaf  alike  through- 
out the  day.  She  heard  my  words  yesterday,  though  I 
had  not  raised  my  voice." 

"  Somewhiles  that  is  so,  my  lady.  Was  this  in  early 
morning  ?  " 

"Indeed  no! — and  yet,  for  a  very  great  exactness,  yes! 
It  was  after  midnight,  by  the  clock,  when  Sir  Oliver  and 
I  came  in  last  night.  And  that  was  early  morning  of 
to-day.  But  for  the  true  sense  of  your  question,  I  take 
the  answer  to  be — no !  " 

"  I  meant  that,  my  lady.  Mother  hears  at  her 
best  in  the  hours  of  the  real  morning,  that  come 
after  sleep.  Otherwhile,  she  may  be  stone-deaf  but  for 
a  chance." 

"  It  was  such  a  chance  last  night,  then.  How  else  came 
she  to  hear  my  words  to  Sir  Oliver  ?  " 

"  Is  your  ladyship  sure  ?  " 

"  Most  certain !  "  Lucinda  turned  her  head  about  to 
tell  it.  "  I  said  to  Sir  Oliver,  at  the  stair-foot,  as  we 
lighted  tapers  for  bed,  that  I  woidd  swear  that  John 
Kackham  had  spared  himself  a  ride  in  the  rain  three 
weeks  since,  and  had  never  carried  the  letter  to  meet  the 


84  AN  APFAIE  OF  DISH0:N'0K 

post-cart.  Then,  as  Sir  Oliver  went  upstairs,  your  mother 
turns  to  me,  saying  Mr.  Rackham  would  be  main  sure 
to  see  the  letter  had  its  best  chance,  for  think  how  my 
ladyship's  father  must  be  longing  for  a  letter ! "  For 
Lucinda's  wording  would  often  note  little  oddments  of 
country-speech,  or  passing  catchwords  of  the  villagers, 
whenever  she  had  to  repeat  what  they  had  said. 

Then  she,  not  sorry  to  talk  of  her  father,  though  only 
to  her  tirewoman,  made  more  of  a  tale  of  the  matter  than 
any  need  was.  "  So  I  made  inquiry  of  your  mother  what 
Mr.  Rackham  had  said  touching  the  letter,  and  she  made 
answer  that  she  had  but  now  used  his  own  words  to  me. 
But  he  had  said,  too,  that  my  father  and  I  were  a  rare 
father  and  daughter,  and  he  for  his  part  would  carry  the 
letter  as  far  as  he  might ;  then  if  it  reached  not,  he  would 
not  be  the  one  to  blame.  I  said  to  your  mother  then,  that 
John  Rackham  was  an  honest  man.  Did  she  not  think 
so  herself  ?  But  on  a  sudden  it  seemed  she  heard  not  my 
words,  and  I  had  to  shout.  Even  then  she  caught  not 
all  I  said,  to  my  thinking,  and  answered  wide  of  the 
mark." 

To  which  Mrs.  Trant  said,  combing  always,  that  that 
was  the  way  with  her  mother,  whose  hearing  would  come 
by  starts,  and  be  gone!  But  that  was  so  with  all  deaf 
folk,  to  the  best  of  her  knowledge  and  belief,  though 
there  might  be  wiser  foll^  than  she,  she  being  no  book- 
scholar.  Then  Lucinda  said  there  needed  no  bookish 
reading  to  tell  this  much,  that  deafness  might  be  hard 
and  fast,  and  never  vary.  For  see  how  old  Dr.  Phinehas, 
whom  she  had  known  from  childhood,  could  hear  naught 
except  to  put  up  his  hand  to  listen;  and  never  missed  to 
do  so,  having  finished  speaking,  as  he  must  have  done  had 
his  hearing  ever  come  back,  even  for  a  moment.     To 


'AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOI^OR  85 

■which  Mrs.  Trant  answered  in  an  odd  little  phrase, 
"  That,  my  lady !  "  meaning  thereby,  was  that  so,  not  as 
a  question,  but  as  an  assent. 

All  this  household  called  its  mistress  my  lady  without 
grudging,  either  because  of  a  belief  that  she  was  truly  the 
wife  of  Sir  Oliver,  or  because  some  like  experience  in 
former  years  had  taught  discretion.  How  should  any 
member  of  it  know  one  Lady  Raydon  from  another,  or 
be  so  daring  as  dub  a  new  one  mere  madam  on  the  strength 
of  a  memory  of  eight  months  past? — or  be  able  to  swear 
to  a  new  face  and  hands;  while,  as  for  figure,  is  not  a 
figure  a  dress?  Sir  Oliver  knew  best  who  was  Lady 
Raydon;  or,  at  least,  could  make  the  man  who  gainsaid 
him  pay  the  penalty  of  his  speech.  It  was  otherwise  at 
the  Leasowes — that  was  the  JSTew  HalFs  old  name — 
where  all  the  servants  had  lived  three  years  or  more  in 
the  house  in  the  days  of  its  lawful  mistress,  and  each 
grudged  her  style  and  title  to  a  substitute.  ISTow  Kips 
Manor  had  always  been  a  strange  unknown  land  to  this 
lady,  whither  she  had  resolutely  refused  to  accompany 
her  husband,  seeing  that  it  was  near  the  sea,  and  it  had 
never  been  a  practice  in  her  family  to  dwell  near  the  sea. 
But  it  had  been  to  break  her  of  this  prejudice  that  such 
great  expense  had  been  incurred  in  new  furnishings  and 
luxuries  at  the  Manor,  and  these  had  stood  Sir  Oliver  in 
good  stead  for  many  purposes — that  is  to  say,  whenever 
occasion  arose  for  a  quiet  retreat  after  a  season  of  gaiety, 
or  for  any  reason. 

Let  it  be  said  at  once  that  Lucinda  wondered  not  a 
little  now  and  again  that  Sir  Oliver  should  be  contented 
to  dwell  so  long  in  this  solitude.  All  the  more  so  that 
his  manner  was  not  that  of  a  man  at  ease  with  his  sur- 
roundings, and  finding  pleasure  in  them.     Rather,  it  was 


86  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

that  of  a  dissatisfied  connoisseur,  who  has  paid  heavily 
for  some  bijouterie  or  knick-knack,  and  loves  not  the 
sight  of  it,  knowing  he  was  cheated  in  the  purchase. 
But  she  accounted  to  herself  for  this  strange  readiness  of 
his  to  dwell  in  what  he  called  a  damnable  wilderness,  a 
God-forsaken  hole — though  why  its  having  been  forsaken 
of  God  should  make  it  damnable  in  his  eyes  was  hard  to 
say — by  supposing  that  it  was  through  his  love  for  her 
that  he  endured  it.  And  the  more  she  thought  this,  the 
more  she  praised  the  place  and  spoke  of  her  joy  in  it, 
thereby  to  cause  him  to  dwell  there  longer  alone  in  her 
society.  For  his  was  what  she  coveted  in  her  infatua- 
tion, strange  to  say;  or,  rather,  a  thing  that  would  have 
been  strange  were  it  not  so  common  a  story — ^this  heart- 
whole  devotion  of  youth  and  beauty,  and  a  soul  that 
rises,  as  it  were,  above  its  contamination,  to  a  creature 
so  foul  at  heart,  so  sunk  in  sensuality  and  selfhood,  that 
it  seems  a  hard  task  to  Faith  itself  to  think  no  ill  of  his 
Maker.  Such  was  Lucinda's  blind  love  for  this  miserable 
blotch  on  the  light  of  Heaven,  and  so  long  as  he  dwelt 
contented,  save  and  except  for  free  curse  and  execration 
— even  of  the  sound  of  the  sea! — she  was  not  the  one  to 
say  him  nay,  and  seek  to  go  elsewhere. 

But  no  news  came  of  Lucinda's  father,  nor  of  any  thing 
or  person  belonging  to  her  family,  and  this  was  a  grave 
disquiet  to  her.  But  she  bore  her  burden  in  silence, 
saying  nothing  to  Sir  Oliver.  Still,  she  was  able  to  say 
to  herself  for  consolation  that  no  news  was  good  news — 
as  a  many  have  said  before  and  since,  and  lived  to  know 
the  falsehood  of  it.  For  her  idea  was  that,  were  any- 
thing badly  amiss  with  her  father,  she  would  have  been 
sure  to  get  some  answer  to  her  letter — indeed,  she  had 
supplicated  him,   if  he  wrote  not   himself,   at  least  to 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHON^OR  87 

charge  some  old  friend  to  write  in  his  stead — as,  for 
instance,  the  Very  Reverend  the  Dean,  Amy  as  Tunstall, 
her  godfather,  who  knew  all  their  affairs — only  that  she 
might  know  that  all  went  well  with  him.  Little  did  she 
think,  as  she  lay  miserable  in  the  small  hours  of  the  night- 
time, wondering  should  she  ever  again  see  the  Old  Hall, 
and  hear  her  father's  voice,  that  there,  within  two  or 
three  yards  of  her,  had  she  but  known  it,  was  her  letter, 
all  but  what  was  written  on  the  sealed  wrapper,  on  which 
was  the  direction  and  the  dropped  wax.  For  the  sly  fox, 
her  deceiver  in  all  things,  had  put  it  under  lock  and  key 
in  the  black  ebony  cabinet  that  held  a  mass  of  his  own 
correspondence;  mighty  little  of  which  was  fit,  for  very- 
shame,  to  be  brought  out  into  open  day.  And  there  it 
lay,  as  it  might  be  a  stray  violet  in  the  spring-time,  fallen 
by  misadventure  in  a  sumph  or  cesspit. 

She  had  lain  thus  one  night,  brooding  over  her  own  life 
and  the  way  she  had  flung  all  her  wealth  to  the  winds  for 
the  sake  of  the  thing  beside  her,  until  between  three  and 
four  in  the  morning,  and  was  just  becoming  drowsy,  and 
her  pulse  hushing  sleepwards,  when  she  was  roused  with 
a  shock  and  a  start  by  Sir  Oliver's  voice  exclaiming 
suddenly  beside  her :  ^^  There  is  something  in  the  room 
with  us !  " 

She  had  been  too  near  sleep  to  feel  sure,  seeing  the 
start  it  gave  her,  that  the  words  were  no  dream,  but  really 
Sir  Oliver's.  When  she  found  her  own  voice,  what  she 
said  was,  "  Was  it  you  that  spoke  ? "  and  then,  when  he 
said,  but  speaking  articulately,  something  quite  unin- 
telligible about  John  Rackham,  said  further:  "You 
were  dreaming,  dear!  Wake  up!  Why — the  door  is 
locked  I  What  thing  should  there  be  in  the  room '  with 
us?" 


88  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOISTOK 

He  replied :  "  Hold  thy  peace,  silly  wench,  and  listen.'' 
And  thereupon  she  listened  with  a  beating  heart,  but 
heard  nothing. 

Then  she  said :  "  It  was  the  owl,  Oliver.  Lie  down 
and  sleep."  For  there  was  an  especial  owl,  whose  hoot 
was  familiar  to  them,  whose  rest  was  in  a  distant  corner 
of  the  roof. 

He  said  again  as  before :  "  Be  still  and  listen."  And 
then  later :  "It  was  no  owl.  It  was  that  thing  John 
Rackham  wots  of.  Thou  knowest,  too — a  thing  with 
flaps."  And  then  she,  seeing  he  was  still  half -dreaming — 
for  all  he  had  seemed  so  wakeful ! — took  him  by  the  arm 
and  shook  him,  saying :  "  Wake  up,  Oliver  mine !  Dost 
thou  not  know  thou  art  talking  nonsense  ? " 

Upon  this  he  seemed  to  shake  off  his  sleep,  saying 
foolishly :  "  What  did  I  say — just  now  ?  "  And  she  re- 
peated it  just  as  he  had  said  it,  laughing  at  him,  or  affect- 
ing to  laugh.  For  she  could  not  get  clear  of  an  eerie 
feeling  that  is  ever  at  hand  where  sleep  and  waking  meet 
and  cross.  Then  he,  coming  fully  out  of  his  sleep,  says 
clearly,  "  What  it  all  was  I  know  not  now,  but  it  seemed 
all  good  faith  at  the  time,"  and  then  lay  down  again  to 
sleep,  which  she,  too,  was  not  sorry  to  do  also,  and  this 
time  was  soon  in  a  sound  slumber. 

All  this  is  told,  not  for  any  place  the  thing,  a  trifle  in 
itself,  has  in  this  story,  but  only  that  those  interested  in 
these  strange  phenomena  of  sleep  should  be  better  able 
to  judge  of  what  followed  within  two  or  three  hours  that 
Bame  night. 

For  Lucinda  was  not  left  to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  deep 
sleep  that  was  her  due  after  so  long  waiting.  She  was 
awaked  again,  as  she  thought,  very  soon  after  she  closed 
her  eyes,  but  over  two  hours  certainly,  feeling  chilled.    0£ 


'AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  89 

which  the  cause  was  soon  found,  the  coverlid  being  thrown 
off,  and  her  bed-fellow  gone  some  time,  to  judge  by  the 
coldness  of  the  bed  where  he  had  lain.  This  was  matter 
for  alarm,  for  might  he  not  have  fallen  in  a  fit  elsewhere, 
and  so  lie  helpless?  As  she  listens,  she  hears  that  he  is 
close  at  hand,  and  moving  about — and  it  is  a  glad  hearing, 
for  she  has  had  no  relish  for  her  awakening,  so  deep  was 
her  slumber  and  so  enjoyable,  and  so  little  loves  she  com- 
pulsion to  be  moving  about  in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 
Sir  Oliver  has  gone — this  she  thinks — either  to  note  down 
something  he  would  remember,  or  to  refresh  some  halting 
memory  that  had  crossed  his  mind  in  a  wakeful  moment. 
For  either  of  these  things  would  have  been  like  him,  and 
had  happened  before;  and  now  she  can  hear  him  shifting 
papers  at  his  desk.  For  it  is  in  this  little  cabinet,  next 
the  bedroom,  that  Sir  Oliver  writes  despatches  to  his 
steward  Durrell;  not  numerous,  nor  of  great  length,  but 
often  calling  for  much  thought,  and  giving  Sir  Oliver 
provocations  to  impatience,  either  from  doubt  what  to 
write  and  how,  or  from  defect  of  writing-gear. 

Now  Lucinda,  hearing  the  rustle  of  papers,  and  know- 
ing John  Rackham  was  to  ride  in  the  very  early  morning 
of  that  day  to  catch  the  postal  carrier  at  the  Cobbler 
with  Two  Wives,  seven  miles  away,  settled  it  in  her  mind 
that  Sir  Oliver  had  desired  to  correct  some  instruction  to 
Durrell,  and  had  feared  he  might  be  pressed  for  time,  or 
cause  John  Rackham  to  miss  the  post;  so  had  decided  to 
alter  his  letter  straightway,  as  there  was  already  ample 
daylight  in  his  writing-room,  although  the  bedroom 
windows,  where  she  was,  were  darkened.  So  she  would 
not  meddle  with  him,  or  disturb  him,  but  having  first 
made  good  the  derangement  of  the  coverlid,  she  turns 
over    to    sleep    again,    taking   his    return    presently   for 


90  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

granted.  Yet  not  so  sound  but  she  can  still  catch  the 
move  of  the  writing-paper  in  the  next  room. 

Then,  this  being  prolonged  a  great  while,  and  sleep 
checked  bj  starts  from  the  sound  of  it,  she  at  last  calls  to 
him  aloud :  "  Oliver ! — art  thou  writing  a  book,  good 
man  ?  "  But  no  answer  comes,  and  a  sudden  fear  she 
cannot  understand  is  on  her.  She  must  know  what  this 
means,  and,  rising,  steals  to  the  door  and  peeps  in  at  the 
writer. 

There  sits  Sir  Oliver,  in  his  flowered  dressing-robe,  to 
all  seeming  busy  with  a  letter.  She,  calling  to  mind  a 
thing  that  made  a  chance  word  easy — ^namely,  that  he 
had  complained,  but  the  night  before,  of  want  of  ink — 
says  to  him :  "  So  you  have  found  the  ink,  sweetheart !  " 
But  no  answer  comes,  only  the  scratching  of  the  pen. 

She,  in  a  sort  of  alarm,  steals  in,  and  goes  close  beside 
him,  looking  over  his  shoulder.  But  this  is  some  new 
distraction,  and  her  heart  goes  quick  over  it.  For  never 
a  drop- of  ink  is  in  his  pen,  as  it  travels  on  the  paper,  and 
though  the  writer  may  dip  it  in  the  inkpot,  it  is  a  dry 
errand  he  sends  it  on.  But  he  still  goes  on,  heeding 
nothing,  and  seems  unconscious  of  the  woman  standing  at 
his  shoulder,  all  in  an  apprehension  of  she  knows  not 
what. 

Then  she  finds  her  voice.  "  Oliver,  dearest  love,  thou 
art  doing  nothing.  Thy  pen  is  dry!  What  a  craze  is 
this,  for  this  hour  in  the  morning!  Come  back  to  bed." 
But  he  still  writes  on,  and  she  was  too  frightened  to 
waken  him  roughly,  for  fear  it  might  harm  him. 

For  she  could  see  now,  very  plain,  that  this  was  a 
state  of  sleep-walking,  a  thing  all  know  and  talk  of,  but 
few  see;  and  fortunately,  for  no  sleep-walker  can  be  left 
safely   to   himself,   lest   he   do   himself   some   mischief; 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0K  91 

neither  can  he  be  with  safety  abruptly  awakened,  the 
shock  of  awakening  being  often  unsettling  to  the  reason. 
So  Lucinda,  who  had  heard  speak  of  this  thing,  yet  never 
seen  it,  dared  not  attempt  to  rouse  Sir  Oliver,  but 
stepped  back  from  him,  watching  him  well,  yet  keeping 
out  of  close  touch  with  him,  not  to  guide  or  affect  him 
in  any  way.  In  which,  to  our  thinking,  she  acted  most 
judiciously. 

After  a  very  little,  though  to  her  it  was  longer,  he 
seemed  to  mutter  to  himself,  though  what  he  said  she 
could  only  guess  at.  But  she  was  deceived  by  it  into 
fancying  he  must  be  awake,  and  forgot  her  better  judg- 
ment, catching  him  by  the  arm,  and  thinking  to  assure 
him  of  her  presence.  But  no! — he  was  still  sound  asleep, 
though  his  eyes  stood  open,  and  the  way  they  saw 
nothing,  and  she  could  know  of  it,  brought  a  chill  to  her 
heart,  and  tried  her  courage  sorely.  Yet  she  dared  not 
call  aloud  for  help,  even  could  she  have  thought  of  any- 
one of  the  household  whose  presence  would  have  been 
welcome.  So  she  could  only  wait  to  see  what  he  would 
do  next. 

As  for  what  he  said  or  muttered,  it  was  just  inco- 
herency,  so  far  as  her  hearing  of  it  went.  He  seemed  to 
be  speaking  of  some  man,  God  knows  whom,  who  had 
turned  against  him.  "  This  is  an  obstinate  fellow,  but  I 
will  have  him  down  yet !  "  And  then  presently :  "  What 
a  mercy  dost  thou,  man,  to  cry  out  against  me!  Bully- 
boy,  bully-boy,  lower  thy  point,  and  down  upon  thy 
marrowbones !  " — and  other  like  rubbish,  to  which  she 
could  attach  no  more  meaning  than  to  his  other  formless 
mumblings  as  he  woke  from  his  deeper  sleep.  There  was 
more  of  it,  meaing  nothing,  until  at  last  he  spoke  out 
quite  plainly,  saying,  "  He  were  best  keep  his  own  coun- 


92  A-N  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

sel,  this  man,"  and  then  of  a  sudden  his  proper  speech 
came  back  to  him,  most  easy  to  distinguish  from  his  sleep- 
ridden  gibberish,  and  a  boon  to  her  to  hear.  And  as  she 
looked  in  his  eyes,  the  cloud  went  off  them,  and  they 
moved  again  naturally. 

"  What  is  all  this  pother  ?  What  dost  thou  here, 
Mistress  Lucy?  This  is  not  thy  place.  Get  thee  back 
to  bed,  wench! — and  make  an  end  of  it."  To  which  she 
answered,  '^  Gladly — for  my  part !  "  and  was  returning  to 
the  bedroom — thinking  it  safest  to  thwart  him  in  nothing 
— when  he  called  after  her  harshly :  "  What  am  I  doing 
here?  How  came  I  here?  Answer  me  that!"  But 
then,  before  she  could  reply,  he  caught  her  up  with,  "  Get 
thee  gone,  mistress — and  no  more  words !  "  Whereupon 
she,  trembling  alike  with  cold  and  terror,  got  back  to  bed. 

She  heard  Sir  Oliver  making  some  noise  over  opening 
and  closing  drawers  impatiently,  then  that  he  thrust 
papers  away  into  them,  locking  them  in  with  a  snap. 
Then  comes  he  back  to  bed,  not  over-thoughtful  on  her 
behalf,  nor  caring  a  straw  that  he  should  run  the  risk 
of  waking  her  again  for  no  cause.  She  heard  him  say 
some  words,  seeming  of  little  coherency,  but  this  she  put 
down  to  her  own  failing  senses,  for  sleep  was  coming  apaco 
to  her,  and  welcome. 


CHAPTER  YII 

Next  morning  Lucinda  was  rejoiced  to  find  how  light 
an  impression  all  this  disturbance  of  the  night  had  made 
on  the  person  who  might  reasonably  have  been  most  af- 
fected by  it — that  is,  Sir  Oliver  himself.  For  it  is  hard 
to  reconcile  such  a  suspension  of  the  common  rule  and 
order  of  life  with  a  steadfast  continuance  of  its  functions. 
Yet,  except  that  he  broke  his  fast  before  he  rose  from 
his  bed,  he  gave  no  sign  of  suffering  from  any  unusual 
perturbation,  either  mental  or  physical.  Whereas  Lu- 
cinda  felt  all  weary  and  stiff,  and  almost  as  though  she 
had  been  beaten  with  rods,  and  her  eyes  sore  and  heavy- 
lidded.  For  which  her  remedy  was  to  get  out  as  soon 
as  might  be  into  the  sunshine  and  sweet  warm  air,  leav- 
ing breakfast  to  wait  till  she  should  have  shaken  off  the 
memory  of  so  many  sleepless  hours  of  waking  nightmare. 
Till  that  was  done,  how  should  she  think  of  food  ?  Still, 
she  could  take  a  little  cup  of  coffee,  made  as  in  Turkey; 
for  in  those  days  the  practice  of  making  coffee  with  much 
milk,  as  now,  was  not  yet  conmaon.  And  tea  was  a  rarity, 
especially  now  that  there  was  war  with  Holland,  and  no 
trade  with  the  Dutch,  who  had  brought  the  leaf  first  to 
England,  some  three  or  four  years  since. 

It  was  no  surprise  to  her  to  find  on  her  return  that  Sir 
Oliver  was  still  abed,  having  eaten  well ;  for  this  was  no 
uncommon  occurrence  that  he  should,  simply  from  an 
idle  indulgence  of  laziness,  lie  sluggard-wise  till  near  mid- 
day, now,  and  then  bidding  Lucinda  play  some  tune  on  a 

93 


94  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

clavichord  that  stood  in  his  apartment  adjoining.  For 
he  had  a  pretty  taste  in  music,  though  himself  but  a  poor 
proficient  in  execution.  And  he  would  have  her  do  so 
now,  asking  a  tune  he  knew  by  the  name  of  "  Joan  in  the 
Cherry-Orchard  " — a  merry  tune.  But  Lucinda  would 
not  indulge  this  lazy  whim,  and  his  mere  sloth. 

^^  Thou  idle  loon !  "  said  she,  and  he  only  laughed  when 
her  speech  was  so  plain  with  him.  "  Why,  sweetheart, 
Oliver  mine,  what  ails  thee  to  lie  simmering  there  in  the 
sheets,  letting  the  day  spoil?  For  shame,  thou  foolish 
man!  Get  thee  up,  and  come  out  in  the  sunshine,  and 
see  the  great  fisher-fleet  that  is  out  on  the  waters."  But 
then  her  mind  misgave  her  that  the  night's  disturbance 
had  left  him  ill,  and  she  said  her  thought,  asking  him 
anxiously  how  he  fared.  But  he  made  light  of  the 
matter,  saying  he  had  many  a  time  walked  in  his  sleep 
as  a  boy,  and  never  been  a  penny  the  worse.  But  what 
was  this  tale  of  hers  of  a  great  fisher-fleet?  Then  says 
she,  ^^  Come  out  and  see  for  yourself.  Master  Lie-abed," 
and  is  off  to  seek  breakfast,  for  a  bell  had  rung  below  as 
they  were  talking. 

But  when  she,  being  ready  to  go  out  again,  went  to 
seek  for  Sir  Oliver,  he  was  no  longer  in  his  room;  and 
Mrs.  Trant  and  her  mother  were  busying  themselves  over 
making  beds  and  setting  things  in  order  for  the  day,  and 
they  were  very  sure  he  had  gone  up  on  the  roof,  having 
taken  his  spy-glass  and  walked  away  down  the  long 
gallery,  which  only  led  thither.  It  was  a  foursquare 
open  gallery  or  gazebo,  with  a  wooden  rail,  topping  a 
gable  that  rose  in  the  centre  well  above  the  surrounding 
roofs,  and  giving  a  fine  view  seawards.  There  he  stood 
when  Lucinda  found  him,  spying  through  his  glass,  which 
he  held  against  a  little  flagstaff  at  the  corner. 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  95 

"  Are  they  not  easy  to  see,  Oliver  mine — the  fisher- 
boats  beyond  the  bay  ? '' 

"  None  so  easy,  Mistress  Lucy !  I  can  see  none,  look 
as  I  may.  Thine  eyes  are  cleverer  than  mine  to  see 
fishing-boats  on  yonder  sea.  If  there  be  any,  better  for 
them  to  be  ashore  as  fast  as  may  be.  So  say  I,  and  so  wilt 
thou  say  soon.''  N^ow  this  made  Lucinda  look  again,  and 
then  she  saw  that  what  she  had  thought  fisher-boats  were, 
in  nearer  sight,  great  ships  with  canvas  spread  and  hulls 
rising  high  above  the  sea,  story  on  story. 

"  What  do  they  do  here,  to  come  so  near  the  coast  ?  " 
Sir  Oliver  spoke  to  himself,  but  then  afterwards  he  spoke 
to  Lucinda,  answering  a  question ;  "  What  are  they, 
wench?  Why,  I  take  it  they  be  the  Dutch  fleet,  under 
Admiral  de  Ruyter.  That  big  one  in  the  middle  may 
well  be  his  flagship.  Why  do  they  come  to  these  parts? 
That  I  know  not,  but  Haarlem  is  but  a  two  days'  sail  with 
a  fair  wind,  and  so  far  as  I  know  there  be  none  strong 
enough  to  hinder  them,  now  there  is  no  Admiral  Blake." 

"  Oh,  see,  Oliver — see  how  the  white  sails  flap  in  the 
wind  and  fall !  How  beautiful  she  is  in  the  sunlight ! 
But  there  is  no  wind,  and  the  sea  is  glass." 

That  year  (1665)  was  the  beginning  of  the  second  war 
between  England  and  Holland,  and  at  the  time  of  this 
story  either  had  been  for  a  long  time  building  up  a  fleet, 
each  in  hope  to  drive  the  other  permanently  off  the  seas; 
for  nations  could  be  fools  then  as  now,  even  as  samples 
from  them,  chosen  now,  may  be  fools  as  great  as  any 
among  them  then.  But  these  two  fleets  were  both  kept 
in  port  for  some  reason  which  he  who  cares  for  the  reading 
of  History  may  find  for  himself,  until  May  of  that  year, 
when  the  English  Admiral,  the  Duke  of  York,  the  brother 
of  King  Charles,  hoisted  his  flag  in  the  Channel.     The 


96  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

Dutch  were  not  so  forward,  or  awaited  the  return  of  their 
Admiral  de  Ruyter  from  the  Mediterranean.  Who,  how- 
ever, came  not.  Therefore,  this  fleet,  under  Admiral 
Opdam,  had  delayed  taking  the  sea  some  two  months, 
and  no  doubt  his  ship  was  the  one  seen  bj  Sir  Oliver  and 
Lucinda  from  the  roof-top. 

And  Lucinda  thought  many  a  time  long  after,  and 
would  tell  it  to  young  children  in  her  old  age,  how  sweet 
that  great  ship  had  looked  as  she  lay  on  the  water, 
motionless  for  the  dead  calm;  how  sweet  some  sort  of 
bugles,  blown  for  sig-nalling,  were  across  the  sea,  when  a 
little  wind  set  inwards  to  the  coast,  and  let  the  music 
come,  too.  And  how  the  roll  of  certain  drums  that  rose 
and  fell  with  the  wind,  and  seemed  in  all  the  ships,  had 
threat  or  terror  in  it,  though  she  knew  not  fully  why  till 
after.  And  it  was  sweet,  too,  to  hear,  as  might  be  heard 
for  all  the  distance  was  so  great,  the  long  sweep  of  oars 
that  struck  the  water  in  certain  boats  that  went  from 
ship  to  ship.  Concerning  which  boats,  Sir  Oliver  said, 
they  were  carrying  officers  to  and  fro  to  take  instruction 
from  the  Admiral.    But  it  may  be  he  knew  not. 

In  his  own  time  Sir  Oliver  surrendered  the  spy-glass, 
that  Lucinda  might  try  her  luck  at  seeing.  But  the  sight- 
hole  had  a  trick  of  closing,  and  Lucinda  was  never  sure 
whether  she  saw  anything  or  not.  But  she  thought  she 
saw  a  ship  once,  only  she  had  to  look  outside  to  see  which. 
So  in  the  end  she  gave  the  glass  back  to  Sir  Oliver. 

Presently  says  he,  looking  through  it :  "I  thought  as 
much."  But  just  as  if  he  thought  aloud,  and  his  hearer 
Kvas  not  worth  the  making  out  a  further  tale  to.  And 
then :  "  Use  thine  eyes,  fairest  Lucy,  and  look  beyond 
the  ships,  and  say  what  thou  seest."  Whereupon  she, 
Btraining  her  eyes  into  the  distance,  sees  the  offing  of  the 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHON^OR  9f 

blue  sea  beyond  dotted  with  yet  more  white  sails,  and 
yet  more.  Then  she,  going  nearer  to  Sir  Oliver  that  her 
arm  may  be  about  his  neck,  says,  a  little  in  fear  and 
much  in  wonder :  "  What  is  it  all,  Oliver  dearest  ?  Do 
tell  me  what  you  know." 

"  Thus  much  I  know,  sweet  Lucy,  that  the  ships 
nearest  us  are  Dutch.  And  thus  much  I  suspect,  that 
the  others  out  beyond  are  our  own  fleet.  And  thus  much 
I  believe,  that  every  man  aboard  them,  one  as  much  as 
the  other,  is  praying  for  a  breeze  that  he  may  be  brought 
within  gunshot  of  his  enemy." 

"  Oh,  merciful  Heaven !  Pray  rather,  pray  with  me, 
that  the  wind  may  grow  even  less  than  now,  and  that 
they  may  be  kept  apart,  despite  their  wicked  prayers !  " 

"  Thou  silly  chit !  Shall  there  be  no  more  glory  of 
war  and  battles,  to  please  a  silly  chit  ?  But  I  can  tell 
thee  a  thing  will  change  thy  note.  Mistress  Lucy ;  so  pay 
attention  to  what  I  say.  I  was  in  two  minds,  till  I  caught 
sight  of  yonder  fleet  on  the  oflSng  .  .  .  ay,  I  am  pretty 
sure  it  is  English — for  I  can  make  out  a  flag  ...  I 
was  in  two  minds  if  it  would  not  be  wisest  to  pack  off 
straight  way,  before  a  boat's  crew  or  two  of  Dutchmen 
should  come  ashore  for  plunder.  This  house  would  not 
be  amiss  to  sack.  That  might  well  have  been,  but  now  it 
will  not." 

"  How  can  you  say  for  certain  ?  Shall  we  not  make 
ready  to  start,  should  we  see  the  boats  on  the  way  ?  " 

"  Aha — my  mistress ! — ^what  did  I  say  ?  Now  shall 
we  rejoice  together  for  the  coming  of  the  British  fleet, 
and  pray  for  the  wind  to  hasten  it  hither?  Say  fare- 
well to  thy  prayers  for  a  calm  sea,  and  listen  for  the 
guns  1 " 

"  I  would  rather  a  thousand   times   this   house  were 


98  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

sacked  and  we  should  fly  than  that  all  these  men  God 
made  should  turn  to  and  slay  each  other  in  my  sight. 
And  so  wouldst  thou,  sweet  Oliver  mine,  for  thy  heart 
is  surely  good,  for  all  thy  conceits  and  phantasies  that 
none  believes  in." 

*^  Faith,  I  know  not  if  my  heart  be  bad  or  good.  But 
I  do  know  that  I  bought  not  this  house  for  any  Dutch- 
men, but  only  for  myself.  Were  it  thy  house,  silly  Lucy, 
wouldst  be  so  ready  to  hand  it  over  to  pillage?  To  my 
thought,  scarcely!  And  as  for  these  men  that  will  slay 
each  other  shortly,  I  know  not  whether  they  were  made 
by  God  or  by  the  Devil.  In  any  case,  they  will  fight, 
lest  they  be  flung  dead  in  the  sea  or  alive  in  a  foreign 
prison.  ...  Is  it  not  nearly  time  for  meat  ? "  But 
there  was  still  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  and  Lucinda, 
though  she  felt  sick  with  dread  of  what  might  come,  was 
in  no  humour  yet  to  leave  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  ships, 
now  especially  that  the  sailors  were  spreading  out  upon 
the  yards,  unreefing  every  sail  and  setting  it  to  catch 
the  first  wind  that  should  come.  And  each  new  sail  that 
they  spread  seemed  whiter  in  the  sun  than  the  last. 

Then  it  began  to  be  clear  that  the  further  fleet  was 
nearing  the  other  steadily,  but  slowly.  The  ships  were, 
as  the  phrase  is,  bringing  the  wind  with  them.  This  does 
not  mean  that  the  wind  and  ship  are  travelling  at  the 
same  rate,  but  only  that  the  ship  is  moving  athwart  the 
wind,  as  the  area  of  wind  increases  sideways.  So  that 
a  ship  that  awaits  the  wind  may  also  await  a  ship.  And 
it  may  come  slow  or  quick,  as  the  wind  spreads. 

This  fleet  was  coming  slowly,  but  surely.  And  the 
Dutchmen  had  no  choice  but  to  wait  the  pleasure  of  the 
breeze. 

Now,  though  the  hour  was  close  at  hand  for  the  mid- 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOE'OR  99 

day  meal,  there  seemed  every  chance  it  would  be  delayed. 
For  all  the  household  had  been  out  watching  this  sight 
upon  the  sea,  and  each  member  of  it  neglecting  his  or 
her  work  to  do  so.  But  an  end  came  to  these  delays, 
and  Sir  Oliver  and  Lucinda  were  summoned  by  a  cus- 
tomary bell,  now  near  an  hour  late.  He,  for  his  part, 
was  not  pleased  to  leave  watching  the  ships,  yet  neither 
would  he  have  been  pleased  had  his  food  been  brought 
to  him  in  the  gallery  he  watched  them  from.  He  was 
morose  and  silent  at  table,  while  Lucinda  did  what  she 
might  to  make  him  less  so,  with  little  or  no  success.  So 
the  meal  passed  almost  in  silence,  for  Susan  Trant,  who 
attended  at  table,  responded  but  little  to  such  chance 
words  as  her  mistress  addressed  to  her,  she  being  either 
too  respectful  or  too  scant  of  language  to  converse 
freely. 

Her  own  lost  hours  of  the  night  before  were  beginning 
to  tell  on  Lucinda,  and  a  drowsiness  was  taking  slow 
possession  of  her  that  taxed  all  her  resolves  to  keep  clear 
of  the  gates  of  sleep.  So  strong  was  it  that  even  as  she 
sat  at  table  her  head  must  needs  nod  and  her  eyes  close, 
and  the  world  slip  from  her  by  fits  and  starts,  leaving  her 
on  the  threshold  of  oblivion. 

"  God  in  Heaven ! — ^what  was  that  ? ''  The  words  were 
Lucinda's  as  she  started  to  her  feet,  broad  awake.  Sir 
Oliver  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Already !  "  he  cried.  "  Why,  how  the  Devil  ?  .  .  . " 
He  left  his  words  unfinished,  and  ran  for  the  stairway  to 
the  roof. 

Lucinda  had  barely  time  to  gasp  again,  "  What  was 
it  ? — oh,  what  ?  "  to  see  the  woman  Trant  run,  mad  with 
terror,   beating  her  hands   together,   tearing  her  hair — 


100  AlSr  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOISTOK 

crying  aloud,  "  O  God,  have  mercy !  God  have  mercy !  " — 
when  it  came  again,  and  yet  again.  And  the  windows 
shook  and  rattled  with  the  crash  upon  crash,  and  the 
birds  that  lived  in  the  ivy  without  were  all  in  panic,  and 
the  great  bloodhounds  in  the  court  bayed  a  deep  response 
to  each  new  word  of  terror  as  it  came  across  the  water. 
For  Hell  had  broken  loose  without,  in  what  had  been  the 
sweet  silence  of  the  morning,  and  the  voice  that  had 
startled  Lucinda  from  her  momentary  sleep  had  come 
from  the  throat  of  a  gun. 

Then  she  ran,  as  well  as  she  could  run,  for  terror  of 
what  she  might  see;  and  although  she  felt  the  while  she 
should  have  liked  to  hide  her  head  and  die,  she  felt,  too, 
that  she  would  be  best  beside  the  man  she  loved.  He 
could  bear  it — true !  But  was  he  not  a  man  ?  And  were 
not  the  world  and  its  ways,  its  gains  and  its  glories — and 
its  women — for  men? 

He  was  there  before  her,  in  the  little  gallery  upon  the 
roof,  and  his  eye  was  at  the  glass,  looking  out  seaward. 
"  God's  wounds ;  don't  shake  so,  wench !  "  was  what  he 
said  when  she  laid  a  timid  hand  upon  him  to  help  her 
strength  from  his. 

What  she  said  was,  "  Thank  God! — they  have  stopped." 
For  the  smoke  of  the  guns  fired  was  drifting  away  across 
the  bay,  and  a  lull  had  come  for  a  moment. 

"  Not  they !  "  said  Sir  Oliver,  watching  still  through 
his  glass.  But  still  Lucinda  had  courage  in  her  to  hope 
that  he  was  wrong — for  a  moment. 

Only  for  a  moment !  For  a  flash  came  sharp  from  the 
great  ship  in  the  centre  of  the  new  fleet,  and  sharp  upon 
the  heels  of  it  another,  and  another,  and  yet  another, 
before  the  sound  could  reach  them  of  the  first.  And  then 
it  came.     But  even  before  the  next  had  time  to  follow — 


a:^  affair  of  disho:nor  loi 

and  none  gave  its  fore-runner's  echoes  time  to  die — 
Lucinda  had  time  to  think  of  the  man  the  shot  struck, 
and  the  wife,  maybe,  that  thought  him  living  still.  Could 
she  but  have  known  the  thing  she  herself  was  ignorant 
of — the  tale  of  the  man  slain  by  the  arm  she  held  but 
now!  At  least,  the  murderer  that  put  the  linstock  to 
yonder  gun  had  never  eaten  with  the  man  it  slew,  nor 
touched  his  hand  in  friendship. 

Truly,  Lucinda  was  no  more  fit  for  a  world  where 
slaughter  is  thought  so  light  of  than  the  woman  who 
wept  that  our  Lord  Christ  was  not  born  before  the  world 
was  made,  to  stay  for  pity's  sake  the  handiwork  of  His 
Father.  For  when  the  great  thunder  came  that  made 
these  first  shots  seem  as  nothing,  the  stunning  intolerable 
roar  of  broadside  on  broadside,  in  which  no  one  gun's 
voice  spoke  alone,  but  was  lost  in  the  Devil's  chorus  of 
its  fellows;  when  all  the  ships  of  either  fleet  were  hidden 
in  an  evil  cloud  of  smoke,  with  evil  flashes  in  the  heart 
of  it;  when  strange  new  sounds  were  bred  in  the  pauses 
of  a  moment  that  even  now  came  from  time  to  time — 
sounds  of  splintering  timber  or  the  rattle  of  small  arms 
— then  Lucinda,  though  she  stood  spell-bound  at  first, 
must  in  the  end  give  way,  and  run  and  hide  her  head  in 
her  pillow,  and  stop  her  ears,  as  she  used  to  do  when  a 
child,  that  she  might  not  hear  the  cries  of  her  brother 
when  his  tutor  beat  him  for  his  slowness  at  his  tasks. 
But  it  was  of  no  avail  now,  for  in  the  murmur  of  her 
ears,  as  her  fingers  pressed  them,  she  could  hear  the 
mufiled  thud  of  every  gun  sound ;  and  she  had  no  courage 
in  her  to  slacken  the  pressure  of  her  fingers,  but  rather 
sought  in  terror  to  make  it  closer  still,  and  this  even 
though  her  finger-nails,  however  duly  trimmed,  must 
needs  cut  and  give  pain  within  the  ear  they  could  not 


102  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

shield  from  the  sound  without.  But  in  truth  this  suffo- 
cated clamour  of  the  battle  was  in  her  pillow  and  in  the 
timbers  of  the  house — nay!  in  the  very  earth  itself,  that 
had  it  from  the  sea.  And  no  ear  escaped  it,  and  none  but 
a  babe  could  hear  it  and  be  deaf  to  the  truth  of  its  boasted 
messages  of  death.  For  not  a  gun  was  fired  that  day 
(nor  is  in  any  battle)  but  had  it  in  its  heart  to  do  murder, 
and  a  Devil's  confidence  in  its  success. 

He  who  reads  this  may  know  that  one  who  falls  asleep 
in  any  steady  continuity  of  sound  may  easily  awaken 
suddenly  if  this  sound  is  suddenly  checked,  and  will  most 
likely  do  so  to  a  certainty  if  a  new  sound  unlike  it  come 
instead.  Thus  it  was  with  Lucinda,  who  for  all  the 
horror  of  the  gun-thuds  in  her  ears,  mixing  with  the 
throbbing  of  her  heart,  could  not  find  it  in  her  to  say 
nay  to  oblivion  when  it  came  hand-in-hand  with  sleep. 
Indeed,  it  would  have  been  wonderful  had  she  not  slept, 
seeing  how  great  had  been  the  stress  of  her  wakefulness 
the  night  before  in  the  proper  hours  of  sleep.  So,  when 
she  huddled  down  and  crouched,  as  it  were,  into  her 
pillow  to  shut  out  only  a  little  more  of  the  intolerable 
sound,  a  welcome  sleep  came  on  her  unawares,  and  the 
monotonous  persistence  of  the  guns,  from  an  evil,  became 
a  lullaby,  and  she  slept  on,  still  deeper  and  deeper. 
Until,  well  on  towards  sundown,  there  came  a  change 
and  a  great  lull.  Then  slow,  intermittent,  dropping  fire 
of  guns  large  and  small.  Then  a  sense  of  greater  distance, 
to  Lucinda's  ears,  in  the  sounds  that  remained. 

For  wheix  that  lull  came  at  last  she  moved  uneasily, 
as  though  towards  awakening;  and  then,  when  sudden 
voices  near  at  hand  grew  loud,  as  of  exultation,  and 
above  all  the  voice  of  Sir  Oliver  making  great  laughter 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK  103 

and  rejoicing,  she  started  up  from  her  sleep  broad  awake, 
crying  out :  "  What  is  this — ^where  am  I  ?  "  And  then, 
casting  about  to  find  the  story  of  it,  presently  remem- 
bered all,  and  dreaded  to  go  up  to  her  lover  on  the  roof 
for  pure  fear  of  what  she  might  hear  had  come  about 
while  she  lay  sleeping. 

But  that  is  soon  settled  for  her.  For  the  servant, 
Susan  Trant,  coming  a-tiptoe  to  see  if  her  mistress  were 
awake,  or  like  to  be,  finds  her  moving,  and  calls  out  to 
her  master  above,  that  he  may  know.  Whereupon  he, 
coming  quickly  down  the  stairway  or  ladder  that  led  to 
the  roof,  runs  to  her  room  with  great  acclamation  and 
rejoicing,  calling  out  to  her  what  a  grievous  miss  she  has 
had  of  a  great  and  glorious  sight ! 

To  all  which  she  only  says :  "  I  pray  God  neither  hath 
had  the  better !  "  And  he  replies :  "  Thou  art  a  silly  fool, 
Lucy!  'Tis  a  victory  for  his  blessed  Majesty,  King 
Charles.  And  if  his  gallant  Admiral  be  not  carrion  al- 
ready, there  will  be  a  coronet  for  him  and  a  fat  endow- 
ment thereto.  Maybe,  though,  the  fish  are  sharing  him ! — 
even  now !  " 

"  Oh,  Oliver  mine !  how  can  you  be  so  horrible  ?  For 
God^s  love,  stint  in  such  horrible  talk!  But  thou  dost 
not  mean  it,  dear  love!  'Tis  only  that  thou  knowest  not 
of  slaughter,  and  all  thy  dream  is  of  stage-play  that 
means  nothing."  For  Lucinda  had  in  her  heart  the 
thought  of  the  smooth  ship's  decks  all  slippery  with 
blood,  and  the  corners  where  men,  wounded  to  the  death 
past  hope,  had  crawled  to  die.  For  she  had  seen,  at 
Tilbury  Fort  a  ship  such  as  these  largest  were,  out  on  the 
water  yonder. 

But  Oliver  winced  at  her  words,  as  well  he  might,  even 
had  the  last  blood  he  shed  not  been  her  father's.     But 


104  A-N  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

he  made  believe  to  laugh — ho,  ho  1  "  Come  along,  mis- 
tress,'' said  he,  "  and  see  the  Lord  High  Admiral  of  the 
States  General,  and  what  our  gunners  have  brought  him 
to !  Faith,  I  have  seen  a  sight  this  day  that,  had  I  missed 
it,  would  have  left  me  sorrowing.  Come  along,  wench! 
JSTo  more  talk !  " 

Then  Lucinda  goes  with  him,  if  it  must  be  so,  and 
shudders  to  look  out  seaward.  And  well  is  she  justified 
in  her  fear.  For  what  sees  she  next  on  the  water  where 
the  ships  of  either  fleet,  so  few  hours  since,  were  afloat  in 
all  their  bravery  of  white  sail  and  flowing  pennon? 
English  are  they,  or  Dutch,  those  scattered,  shattered 
hulks,  half-hidden  in  the  smoke  of  their  own  conflagra- 
tion, through  which  she  scarcely  can  distinguish,  gaze  as 
she  may,  their  fellows  out  beyond,  now  making  for  the 
oflSng,  pursuers  and  pursued? 

But  Sir  Oliver  would  have  her  look  at  one,  the  largest, 
and  rejoice  with  him  at  her  plight.  "  Oho,  Lucy  mine  I  " 
quoth  he.  "  Where  is  he  now,  your  swan-bird  on  the 
water  ?  Dost  thou  know  him  again,  silly  lass  ?  "  And 
Lucinda  gave  a  cry  of  pain  to  see  how  sorely  the  battle 
had  maimed  her  sweet  ship  of  the  morning,  lying  mastless 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke  fed  by  some  burning  fire  in  her  own 
heart.  For  it  was  vomiting  black  vapour  out,  thick  but 
flameless,  from  two  or  three  low-lying  ports  amidships. 
And  a  party  of  the  crew,  who  looked  but  spots  as  they 
climbed  over  a  great  cumber  of  fallen  mast  afloat  against 
the  bulwarks,  must  have  had  a  sore  time  of  it  with  this 
smoke.  At  which  Sir  Oliver  saw  cause  to  be  mightily 
amused.  "  They  think  to  cut  free,"  said  he,  "  but  some 
of  them  will  choke  first,  I  warrant.'' 

Then  Lucinda,  all  pity  for  these  few  she  might  see 
saved,    and  keen  with   interest   awakened,   watched   for 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO:^^OE  105 

them,  as  the  smoke-blast  wavered  for  a  moment,  plying 
axes  and  hand-saws  to  cleai*  the  entangled  wreck.  And 
one  indomitable  man  she  could  make  out  who  hung 
working  to  the  rigging  almost  in  the  very  smoke  itself. 
Whom  she  so  loved  for  his  valour  that  she  would  have 
Sir  Oliver  tell  her  how  this  man  prospered  in  his  work, 
noting  it  through  his  spy-glass  that  made  it  plain  to  be 
seen  by  him,  though  she  herself  saw  dimly. 

"  I  can  see  the  knave,''  said  he,  with  his  eye  at  the 
lens.  "  He  is  bare  to  the  waist,  and  strong  as  a  bull. 
But  he  won't  do  it — he  won't  do  it !  "  Sir  Oliver 
chuckled.  ^^  Ho,  ho !  There  goes  his  chopper  now — 
now — ^now!  See  the  chips  fly  as  he  strikes!  But  .  ,.  .. 
ho,  ho ! , ,  .  .  the  smoke  is  too  hard  on  him.  He  won't 
doit!" 

"  Oh,  but  keep  the  glass  on  him,  Oliver  sweet,  and  tell 
me  how  comes  it  he  gives  not  up — choking,  poor  fellow !  " 

"  I^ot  yet  awhile,  Lucy  lass !  For  he  swings  back,  and 
hangs  by  his  legs  till  the  smoke  passes,  and  then  to  it 
again!     But  he  won't  do  it!  " 

"  Oh,  but  if  he  might,  and  I  might  know  it !  "  And 
then,  indeed,  one  could  have  thought  her  prayer  had 
been  heard,  for  a  dim  cheering  came  from  the  distance, 
and  then  the  seamen  on  the  wreck  were  climbing  up  the 
bulwarks  above  them,  and  the  mast  and  wreckage  seemed 
to  float  free.  But  the  smoke  poured  thick  from  the  ports, 
never  slacking.  Then  Lucinda  heard  again  the  sweet 
bugle-sound,  as  she  had  heard  it  in  the  still  morning. 

Just  what  happened  it  was  hard  to  see,  and  the  causes 
of  it  harder  still.  This,  however,  was  sure,  that  the  great 
ship,  free  of  the  wreck,  swung  slowly  round  so  that  the 
smoking  ports  were  hidden  out  of  sight,  and  the  whole 
ship  clearer  to  be  seen.     Then,  too,  could  Lucinda  see 


lOG  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

certain  boats  with  oarsmen,  but  packed  full  of  others 
abaft;  and  even  in  the  bows,  so  that  they  were  weighted 
almost  to  danger  point.  And  these  boats  were  creeping 
slowly,  slowly  towards  the  great  ship;  nearer  and  nearer, 
as  she,  now  unencumbered  by  wreckage,  though  too  inert 
upon  the  water  to  answer  to  her  rudder,  floated,  a  listless 
hulk,  to  await  their  coming. 

"  O  the  luck  of  it !  "  shouted  Sir  Oliver  joyously.  "  To 
see  it  all  and  miss  none!  And  all  the  smoke  clean  gone! 
Which  wilt  thou  wager  on,  Mistress  Lucy?  Our  men  or 
the  Dutchmen  ?  " 

But  Lucinda  clapped  her  hands  on  her  heart.  "  O 
Gcfti,  have  mercy ! ''  she  cries.  "  I  see  you  mean  they 
will  fight.  Oh,  Heaven  avert  it !  I  had  but  thought  they 
were  coming  to  give  help.'' 

Then  Sir  Oliver  laughed  poisonously ;  but  the  girl  could 
not  see  he  was  a  devil,  because  she  loved  him,  as  is  the 
way  with  women.  And  his  answer  was :  "  Help  enough ! 
Help  to  put  the  fire  out,  and  get  what's  left  of  the  ship 
to  Plymouth  port,  or  where  not,  to  share  prize  money  on. 
But  they'll  have  to  pay  toll  to  the  Dutchmen,  if  I  see 
right,  in  blood  or  broken  bones."  For  his  eye  was  at  the 
telescope. 

Then  Lucinda  would  have  run,  as  she  did  before.  But 
Sir  Oliver  shouts  to  her  to  come  back,  in  a  harsh  voice." 
"Don't  be  a  fool,  girl;  come  you  back!  I  should  have 
thought  thou  wert  a  woman  by  now."  But  though  she 
obeyed  him,  she  gasped  and  shuddered  at  what  was  to 
come.  And  it  was  an  ill  business  for  a  woman  with  a 
tender  heart  to  watch,  even  from  afar.  For  though  the 
burst  of  cheering,  as  the  boat's  crews,  with  a  terrible  deter- 
mination, stormed  the  sides  of  the  helpless  ship,  had  in 
it  what  stirred  for  a  moment  a  sympathy  in  Lucinda's 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  107 

heart ;  yet  when  the  sound  of  cheering  gave  place  to  what 
she  knew  were  broken  cries  of  agony,  and  rage,  and  curses, 
she  went  utterly  sick  at  heart,  and  prayed  that  she  might 
die.  But  none  the  less  must  she  remain  spell-bound,  while 
the  horror  is  enacted  before  her  eyes;  while  her  lover, 
exultant  in  his  glee,  exclaims  aloud  on  all  he  sees,  that 
she  too  may  know  the  glory  of  war,  and  have  done  with 
her  puling  terrors. 

"  Have  an  eye  for  the  man  with  the  hatchet !  "  shouts 
he  in  his  excitement,  forgetting  that  she  has  no  spy-glass, 
as  he  has.  "  He'll  make  some  play  for  us,  that  fellow  will 
— damn  him !  "  And  then  presently :  "  I  have  him  now — 
I  have  him!  .  .  .  he's  down,  but  he's  up  again!  .  .  . 
he's  met  his  match  though,  this  time.  .  .  .  No — he 
hasn't!  .  .  .  Yes! — he  has.  .  .  .  By  God,  they're 
at  the  grips  for  it  .  .  .  have  at  the  throat  of  him,  boy, 
have  at  the  throat!  .  .  .  'ware  the  open  gangway,  ye 
stark  fools  .  .  .  'tis  bad  alike  for  both  .  .  .  there  ye 
go — over — over — over !  "  .  .  . 
"Oh,  Oliver! — where  are  they?" 
"  Gone  to  feed  the  fishes,  chuck,  I  take  it." 
Then  Lucinda,  faint  and  fainter  in  her  despair,  saw 
but  dimly  how  the  British  crew,  beaten  back  and  beaten 
back,  were  in  the  end  triumphant  and  swarming  over  the 
gunwale  of  the  great  ship.  Nor  did  she  note  at  all  how 
in  the  lessening  light — for  time  had  run  quick,  and  the 
day  had  waned — the  dead-light  ports  showing  more  and 
more  a  lurid  glare  of  untamed  fire  below  the  decks.  Nor 
how  the  crippled  British  man-ofwar  the  crews  had  left 
was  settling  down  upon  the  water,  and  would  surely  soon 
go  under. 

For  in  that  very  moment  of  the  boarders'  triumph  the 
creeping  fires  below  reached  the  powder  magazines.     And 


108  a:^  affaie  of  dishoxok 

the  last  image  on  her  eyes  was  of  a  great  flame  shooting 
straight  up,  to  all  seeming  from  the  very  bowels  of  the 
vessel;  from  which,  as  from  a  centre  radiating  upwards 
and  outwards,  expanding  on  every  hand  and  covering  all 
upon  the  sea,  came  ridge  on  ridge  and  fold  on  fold  of 
vapour,  black,  white,  and  flaming,  casting  forth  beyond 
its  vortex  of  destruction  shattered  fragments  of  what  had 
been  the  ship,  and  what  one  shuddered  to  think  had  been 
the  living  bodies  of  its  crew. 

For  such  time  as  her  heart  could  beat  in,  her  tongue 
feel  for  speech  to  ask  what  was  it  that  had  happened,  this 
image  was  an  image  and  no  more.  And  then  the  world 
shook,  and  the  house  shook,  and  the  air  was  full  of  cries 
and  the  sound  of  shivered  glass — for  not  a  window-pane 
towards  the  sea  but  was  broken — and  the  awful  crash  had 
come  that  was  the  answer  to  the  question  she  would  have 
asked,  and  found  no  voice  for. 

All  the  world,  and  the  sunset  light,  and  the  image  of 
her  lover  as  he  turned  and  spoke,  swam  in  her  failing 
vision.  She  just  heard  Sir  Oliver's  words,  "  A  brave 
finish !  'No  more  to-night !  "  and  then,  as  he  shut  his 
telescope,  she  fell  like  a  stone,  and  knew  no  more. 


CHAPTEE  VIII 

Truly  all  hearts  should  be  of  a  tenderness  for  those  of 
this  world  who  have  to  live  in  it  to  be  able  to  bear  its 
cruelties  alike.  Or  at  the  worst  there  should  be  none  so 
great  a  difference  betwixt  any  two  of  us  as  now,  when 
what  seems  but  a  passing  jest  to  one  may  wrench  the  soul 
of  his  neighbour  near  to  death;  when  the  ear  of  one  may 
hear  but  a  stave  of  merry  music  in  what  sounds  Hell's 
discord  to  another,  and  when  the  cramping  of  the  rack 
wrests  a  cry  of  pain  from  one  unwillingly  compelled  to 
see  its  victim^s  torture;  while  another,  glutted  with  the 
sweet  sight,  greets  the  sounds  with  the  chuckle  of  a  Devil. 

In  Sir  Oliver's  world  there  should  have  been  no  heart 
more  callous  to  a  fellow-creature's  agony  than  must  needs 
be  where  the  butcher  has  perforce  to  slay  the  lamb — nay, 
where  its  Maker  has  in  His  Divine  Wisdom  ordained  that 
none  shall  live  except  at  the  price  of  his  mother's  torment. 
In  such  a  world  it  goes  hard  with  those  who  are  dis- 
quieted by  every  manly  sport;  to  whom  the  sound  of  the 
sportsman's  gun  tells  of  the  stricken  bird  escaping  with  a 
broken  wing,  that  wonders  why  it  cannot  fly,  and  looks 
for  its  mate  in  vain;  who  pray  that  the  happy  fish,  deep 
in  the  still  cool  water,  may  be  shrewd  enough  to  bilk  the 
angler,  and  send  him  supperless  to  bed.  To  such  as  these 
the  thought  that  all  suffering  has  been  wisely  ordained 
brings  little  ease  of  heart,  and  the  reflection  that  all 
things  are  the  result  of  an  inevitable  Divine  Law  is  of 
small  comfort,  in  the  minds  of  many  even  causing  ques- 

109 


110  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

tion  of  the  Omnipotence  of  the  Lawgiver,  or  of  His  solici- 
tude for  His  creatures. 

But  Lucinda  was  not  among  those  who  would  push 
their  puny  indictments  to  the  throne  of  the  Most  High, 
and  sit  in  judgment  on  Him  by  the  light  of  the  reasoning 
He  Himself  created.  She  bore  the  pain  she  knew  must 
foe,  at  the  sight  of  the  ruined  plumage  of  the  blood- 
stained bird,  the  sodd-en  glitter  of  the  murdered  fish,  but 
spoke  no  blame  of  rod  or  gun,  only  holding  him  the  truest 
sportsman  who  kills  outright;  and  that  he  who  will  not 
leave  his  fish  to  gasp  to  death  in  the  sun,  for  mercy  and 
tenderness  of  heart,  is  neither  the  worser  angler  nor  the 
greater  fool  thereby.  But  for  these  men  that  had  slain 
each  other  in  their  valour  but  now,  the  voice  of  their 
blood  was  going  up  to  Heaven  from  the  sea  that  had  en- 
gulfed them,  as  the  voice  of  Abel  went  up  from  the  ground ; 
and,  for  her,  the  brand  of  Cain  was  on  every  man  of  them, 
or  his  memory. 

So  it  fell  out  now  on  the  morning  after  this  great 
battle  of  Solebay,  as  its  name  is,  that  Lucinda  shrank 
from  the  seashore  where  it  had  but  yesterday  been  a  joy 
to  her  to  walk,  for  sheer  dread  of  looking  out  on  the  wa- 
ters where  the  fight  had  been;  and  this,  however  Oliver 
might  mock  at  her,  saying  there  was  never  a  sail  now  left 
in  sight,  though  one  should  scour  the  whole  offing  in  search 
of  one.  But  she  must  listen  to  his  bidding,  for  had  he  not 
risen  early  that  he  might  walk  out  along  the  beach  with 
lier  to  see  what  of  jettison  or  castaway  had  drifted  shore- 
ward, as  might  well  be,  or  even  the  body  of  some  drowned 
seaman  or  marine.  But  he  spoke  nothing  of  such  a 
possibility  to  Lucinda,  having  already  much  ado  to  per- 
suade her  to  his  will,  she  praying  always  to  be  allowed  to 
jemain  within  doors,  until  the  very  sun  in  Heaven  that 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOK  111 

had  shone  on  the  evil  deeds  of  yesterday  should  cease  to 
be  a  horror  to  her,  and  the  sweet  world  become  itself 
again. 

Kow  this  desire  that  Lucinda  should  never  be  absent 
from  his  side  seems  to  us  the  one  green  shrub  in  the  arid 
desert  of  a  wicked  soul;  its  one  redemption,  that  may  by 
God's  grace  yet  stand  between  it  and  its  final  fall  into 
the  black  gulf  that  yawns  for  him  who  of  his  own  evil  will 
becomes  a  Devil  outright.  Let  those  beware,  who,  being 
misled  by  words,  would  tear  asunder  sinners  each  of 
whom  has  but  one  nourishment  for  good,  the  love  each 
bears  the  other;  and  substitute  for  it  the  fruitless  bitter- 
ness of  Repentance. 

But  this  is  a  tale,  not  a  homily;  and  it  dwells  upon 
Oliver's  actual  Love  for  Lucinda's  self,  apart  from  such. 
impulses  as  Man  shares  with  goat  and  monkey — and  there 
was  little  taint  of  either  now  in  the  continuous  memory 
he  carried  with  him  of  her  sweet,  soft  dark  eyes,  her  sweet, 
soft  dark  hair,  and  the  feel  of  it — because  it  is  a  solace  to 
thought  to  dream  of  any  seed  in  such  a  soul  that  may 
grow,  in  the  seons,  to  be  other  than  a  tree  of  Damnation. 
Measure  this  man's  crime  against  that  of  fighting  men 
who  slay  their  kind  at  the  bidding  of  a  War  Lord,  who 
half  persuade  themselves  their  act  is  right;  and  then  say 
if  it  is  not  well  this  little  spark  of  light  should  live  and 
grow.  It  has  the  better  chance  that  even  now  it  is  a 
shrewd  discomfort  to  him  to  think  that  could  she  know 
whose  sword  pierced  her  father,  he  might  have  to  give  her 
up  before  he  should  be  well  weary  of  her,  and  ready  to  cast 
her  away. 

Therefore,  when  he  rose  early  to  wander  out  along  the 
coast,  hoping  that  the  relics  of  the  fray  might  not  all  have 
been  swept  away  by  the  tide,  he  would  not  be  content 


112  'AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:>^OK 

except  Lucinda  put  aside  her  hatred  of  the  memories  of 
yesterday,  and  came  in  his  company  to  make  him  merry. 
And  he  bade  her  leave  her  sour  looks  at  home  for  the  next 
grey  sky  she  should  awaken  to,  and  not  waste  them  on 
so  fair  a  dawning.  For  the  sun  shone  as  joyously  for 
three  hours  past,  when  they  came  again  to  the  shore  and 
the  little  waves  that  hurried  on  to  kiss  it  and  die,  as  though 
all  the  story  of  slaughter  could  be  forgotten  in  a  night. 
And  the  lark  was  singing  in  heaven  about  other  things, 
above  the  land ;  while  the  sea-bird's  cry  said  never  a  word 
of  the  blood  that  had  defiled  its  waters.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  masts  of  a  sunken  ship  well  out  to  sea  near  where 
she  had  been  afloat  in  all  her  pride  the  evening  before,  all 
the  stretch  of  ocean  would  have  been  bare  beneath  the 
blue,  dappled  a  little  overhead  with  serried  cloudlets  span- 
ning half  its  vault,  telling  rather  of  wind  to  come  than 
rain. 

But  Lucinda's  eyes,  sore  with  tears,  could  scarcely 
bear  the  dazzle  of  the  light,  and  the  flashing  whiteness 
of  the  foam,  with  its  millions  of  diamonds  in  the  sun,  that 
would  at  another  time  have  filled  her  heart  with  joy. 
How  dared  the  world  be  so  resplendent  with  the  glory 
of  a  day,  so  hard  upon  the  heels  of  one  that  had  made  her 
soul  in  its  despair  cry  out  alone  for  the  solitude  of  mourn? 
ing,  and  for  silence  ?  But  for  Sir  Oliver,  he  was  in  high 
glee  at  the  end  of  the  fray,  and  in  no  concern  for  the 
dead  or  wounded,  even  of  his  own  countrymen.  "  Where 
be  the  knaves  and  their  noise  now,  my  Lucy?  "  said  he. 
^',  .  .  Where  be  they?  .  .  .  Why — ^well  on  their  way 
to  pay  a  visit  to  the  Thames,  those  that  are  not  gone 
on  a  visit  to  the  fishes." 

"  Which  are  the  happier,  Oliver  mine  ?  " 

''  Of  the  Dutch,  or  of  the  English,  wench  ?     Of  the 


AlSr  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOl^OK  113 

English,  I  take  it  those  still  above  water  are  best  off, 
having  prize-money  to  share  and  a  merry  time  to  spend 
it  in.  Of  the  Dutch  I  know  not,  except  it  be  such  as  have 
long  purses,  and  can  buy  their  freedom  to  the  benefit  of 
his  Majesty's  exchequer.  For  prisoners  have  but  a 
wearisome  time  of  it,  in  jail  or  at  work  on  a  chain- 
gang.  Better  be  a  bellyful  for  a  school  of  dogfish ! — if  you 
ask  me." 

"  Will  they  release  none  ?    Will  all  go  to  prison  ?  " 

"  Those  that  pay  will  pack  off  back,  and  so  might  some 
of  the  others  if  there  were  any  captive  among  the  Dutch 
to  exchange  for — ^granting  such  were  sound  and  fit  to 
serve  again.  Else  they  might  draw  their  prize-money  to 
tempt  the  Dutchmen's  greed,  or  wait  for  their  families  to 
scrape  up  a  meal  for  it.  But  the  sea  gives  up  none  for 
ransom,  be  it  never  so  freely  paid." 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  a  man  in  a  prison,  Oliver  mine  ?  " 

"  Of  a  surety ! — and  one  like  to  remain  a  prisoner, 
many  a  long  year,  if  he  lives  to  enjoy  his  irons.  And 
they  do  live,  the  jail-birds  in  their  cages.  I  wonder  they 
die  not  oftener." 

*'  Was  this  one  in  chains  ?  Oh,  tell  me  of  him — ^poor 
creature !  " 

"  He  was  a  pirate  whose  time  on  the  high  seas,  as  I 
take  it,  had  come  to  an  end  for  good.  He  was  on  the  far 
side  of  a  grating,  in  the  within  court  of  the  debtor's  jail 
in  Southwark — what  do  they  call  it? — the  Marshalsea. 
And  my  friend  I  went  to  see  there,  for  curiosity.   ..." 

"  Was  he,  too,  a  prisoner  ?  " 

"  Ay — of  a  sort.  He  was  a  debtor,  and  a  good  friend 
of  mine,  for  he  paid  me  his  losses  at  quadrille,  when  he 
might  have  used  his  money  for  a  sop  to  his  creditors. 
But  he  would  not  be  off  a  debt  of  honour,  so  I  went  to  see 


114  A:^r  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

him  in  jail.  .  .  .  Well,  I  was  telling  thee,  wench,  and 
you  must  be  at  your  questioning !  .  .  .  This  Sackvill — 
that  was  his  name — being  merry  with  wine  I  had  given 
to  drink,  must  needs  thrust  at  this  prisoner  with  my  walk- 
ing cane,  through  the  bars  of  his  den,  to  see  his  mad 
rage  at  him,  he  being  all  the  while  in  safety,  t'other  side 
of  a  strong  grating.  But  he  got  little  sport  of  him,  for 
the  fellow  but  opens  his  eyes  and  says,  ^  Curse  thee,  ass ! 
Thou  hast  spoilt  me  a  dream  of  the  sea.  .  .  .'  What's 
out  yonder  ?  "  So  spoke  Sir  Oliver,  stopping  in  his  speech 
to  gaze  out  seawards,  and  reaching  with  his  hand  the  while 
to  take  from  Lucinda  his  spy-glass,  which  she  had  been 
carrying. 

Then  she,  following  his  eyes  with  hers  as  she  handed 
him  the  glass,  saw  something  afloat  out  towards  the  sunken 
wreck  that  was  not  a  boat,  yet  was  altogether  still  upon 
the  water ;  seeming  to  lean  and  move  with  a  motion  of  its 
own,  more  than  would  come  of  the  mere  chopping  of  the 
sea  beneath  a  freshening  wind.  But  she  could  not  see  the 
cause  of  this  movement. 

Sir  Oliver,  taking  from  her  the  glass  with  a  slight  im- 
patience that  she  should  not  have  thought  to  remove  the 
brass  cap  or  lid,  looked  through  it  awhile,  resting  it  on 
the  post  of  a  groin  or  breakwater  for  steadiness.  Lucinda, 
longing  to  hear,  must  wait  till  he  should  choose  to  speak. 
But  he  made  no  great  haste  to  do  so,  though  he  must  have 
known  well  all  the  time  how  she  was  listening  for  his 
voice. 

"  Is  that  scoundrel  John  Rackham  anywhere  in  sight  ?  " 
he  said  at  last,  not  taking  his  eye  from  the  telescope.  For 
he  had  told  the  groom  to  follow  at  an  easy  distance,  to  be 
at  hand  if  needed. 

"  Oh,  Oliver,  what  have  you  seen  ? — ^what  have  you 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  115 

found?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  can  see  Rackham,  on  the  little 
bridge.     Shall  I  sign  to  him  ?  " 

But  her  lord  was  not  minded  yet  awhile  to  tell  what  he 
saw,  but  only  said,  still  watching :  '"  Sound  twice  on  my 
dog- whistle,  and  disturb  me  not."  IS'ow,  the  dog-whistle 
hung  loose  to  his  watch-chain;  and  Lucinda,  stooping  to 
take  it,  followed  his  bidding,  not  without  fault  found  that 
she  had  shaken  him.  "  Can'st  thou  not  blow  a  whistle, 
and  not  make  a  pother  about  it,"  says  he.  But  truly  the 
girFs  hand  had  been  both  gentle  and  skilful,  failing  only 
where  success  seemed  almost  impossible,  the  whistle  being 
betwixt  Sir  Oliver^s  breast-pocket  and  the  wooden  groin. 

l^ow,  John  Rackham,  who  would  never  go  afoot  except 
under  compulsion,  was  making  use  of  this  attendance  on 
Sir  Oliver  to  finish  the  breaking  in  of  a  young  colt  that 
strained  at  the  rein  overmuch  to  be  good  for  a  lady's 
riding.  So  when  the  whistle  sounded,  he  could  make 
short  work  of  coming.  Then  Sir  Oliver  took  his  eye  from 
the  glass  and  spoke  to  him,  never  caring  that  Lucinda 
was  waiting  on  his  words;  though,  of  course,  she  might 
hear  them — that  he  granted!  That  she  noticed  these 
little  slights  to  herself  scarcely  at  all,  or  found  excuses  for 
them,  was  a  part  of  her  love  for  him,  just  as  much  as  her 
blindness  to  his  greater  torts.  She  was  one  who  gave  not 
her  heart  by  halves. 

"  Get  you  off  to  old  Ben  ThurkilFs,  as  quick  as  you 
may,  and  find  what  ails  the  man  that  he  has  not  seen 
yonder  fellow  left  on  the  wreck.  .  .  .  You  see  him  not  ? 
The  worse  for  your  eyesight,  John  Rackham!  Wake  old 
Ben  up  if  he  sleeps ;  souse  a  pail  of  water  over  him,  and 
make  him  get  his  boat  out  and  bring  the  knave  ashore, 
Dutch  or  English.  Tell  him  to  bring  him  straight  away 
here,  where  we  sit  now — not  to  his  own  God-forgotten 


116  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOISrOK 

midden.  Be  off  sharp,  and  no  words !  "  On  which  the 
groom  turned  back  whither  he  had  come,  for  there  was  no 
bridle  road  by  the  beach  to  the  little  fisher-village  two 
miles  off,  the  nearest  place  for  a  boat;  seeing  that  the 
inroad  of  the  sea  had  eaten  up  the  old  coast-road,  and  the 
new  beach  had  chosen  an  ill  place  for  the  natural  growth 
of  a  fresh  track,  and  it  had  been  no  man's  profit  to  put 
labour  into  the  making  of  one.  So  there  would  be  the  best 
part  of  half-an-hour  to  wait  before  a  boat  could  be 
despatched  to  the  succour  of  that  lonely  survivor,  whoever 
he  was,  upon  the  floating  wreck. 

"  Oh,  but,  Oliver,  can  you  see  him  ?  Are  you  sure  ? 
For  look  as  I  may,  I  see  no  man." 

"  Look  once  more,  Lucy  sharp-eyes,  Lucy  bat's-eyes ! 
Look  once  more,  and  see  if  you  see  not  a  pair  of  them. 
for  there  be  two,  to  my  judgment.  And  either  both  are 
Dutch,  or  both  English." 

"  Now,  dearest  man,  be  reasonable.  Treat  me  not  like 
a  fool,  because  I  am  a  woman.  How  can  you  tell  that 
both  alike  are  of  one  nation,  and  yet  not  see  enough  to  say 
which  ?  " 

"  He  would  have  a  pretty  wit  to  tell  if  a  man  were 
Dutch  or  English,  except  he  could  see  his  clothes,  or  hear 
his  lingo.  And  yet  I  know  this,  that  both  are  alike,  and 
no  sworn  enemies,  and  thou  mayst  even  spend  our 
waiting-time  in  making  a  guess  why.  Guess  now, 
shrewdly !  " 

"  I  cannot  guess.  How  should  I  ?  Tell  me,  Oli- 
ver." For  Lucinda  thought,  as  she  knew  nothing  of 
Holland,  this  was  something  she  must  be  in  the  dark 
about. 

Sir  Oliver,  at  his  glass  again,  laughed  as  at  a  little 
triumph.    "  Then  I  will  take  pity  on  thee.  Mistress  Lucy, 


AN  AFFAIE  OE  DISHOKOK  117 

and  tell  the  riddle.  Easy  enough!  You  saw  the  wreck 
move^  but  now  ?  " 

"  While  you  looked  through  the  glass  ?  As  I  got  the 
whistle  ?     I  saw  it." 

"  That  was  when  the  one  of  them,  of  whom  I  see 
naked  shoulders,  and  no  more,  helped  the  other,  who 
seems  little  better  than  crippled,  to  a  firm  place  on  the 
wreckage,  himself  keeping  always  in  the  water  beside  him. 
Is  it  like  he  would  do  so  if  they  were  enemies  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Lucinda ;  and  thereat,  at  the  doubt 
in  her  voice.  Sir  Oliver  laughed  in  scorn. 

"  What! — to  fight  with  a  man  one  hour,  and  give  place 
to  him  the  next.  Why,  that  fellow  yonder  could  have 
sent  his  mate  to  feed  the  fishes,  and  got  a  good  secure 
hold  for  himself,  any  time!  Depend  on't,  he's  his  senior 
officer,  and  there's  money  in  it  for  him.  .  .  .  What's 
he  after,  next?"  And  Sir  Oliver  remained  silent, 
watching. 

Lucinda,  also  watching,  thought  she  saw  something  on 
the  water,  moving  from  the  wreck  and  giving  back  the 
sunlight,  but  in  the  turmoil  of  the  little  wave-crests, 
for  the  wind  was  rising,  she  could  not  have  said  if  the 
flashing  were  not  the  wing  of  a  gull  perched  on  some 
drift,  and  blown  by  the  wind.  Her  other  thought,  that 
it  was  the  white  flesh  of  a  swimmer,  caught  by  the  light, 
she  put  no  store  by;  for  why  should  either  man  swim 
away  from  his  place  of  safety?  Yet  she  was  mistaken, 
for  presently  Sir  Oliver,  who  had  kept  all  he  saw  to 
himself,  and  what  he  thought  of  it,  takes  a  swimmer  for 
granted  in  his  speech,  saying :  "  The  rogue  will  be  a  fine 
swimmer  if  he  passes  the  Scrimbles,"  and  then  was 
silent,  intent  upon  his  telescope.  K^ow,  "  the  Scrimbles  " 
was  the  name  given  by  the  folk  on  that  coast  to  a  scour 


118  a:^  affaie  of  dishonor 

or  current  a  mile  off  shore,  of  no  great  width,  but  of  a 
dangerous  swiftness;  such  that  fisher-boats,  returning  to 
Shelving  Creek,  where  was  their  usual  anchorage,  would 
make  for  Thorney  Point,  or  Stowe — that  is  to  say,  three 
miles  either  way,  according  to  the  run  of  the  tide — to 
fetch  the  Creek  with  any  security.  Therefore,  Lucinda, 
hearing  that  yonder  spot  out  to  sea  was  a  living  man 
fighting  for  his  life,  could  scarcely  draw  breath  for  the 
intentness  of  her  watching  him.  And  every  time  he 
vanished,  and  was  not  seen  again  on  the  instant,  she 
had  to  choke  back  a  cry,  scarcely  able  to  wait  for  his 
return. 

But  Sir  Oliver,  with  more  grin  on  his  face  than  one 
could  set  down  to  the  mere  twist  of  an  eye  at  a  telescope, 
was  watching  the  swimmer  as  the  true  sportsman  watches 
the  coursers  and  the  hare ;  not  quite  without  a  feeling  for 
the  one  he  has  no  wager  on.  For  this  man,  afloat  there 
two  miles  off  shore,  caught  in  the  sweep  of  the  terrible 
current,  was  in  his  indomitable  fight  for  life  making  sport 
for  Sir  Oliver,  and  deserved  well  of  him,  as  the  heart- 
stricken  hare  that  leaves  its  fur  in  the  fangs  of  the  grey- 
hound deserves  well  of  the  dog's  owner — who  will  eat 
him,  when  tender  for  the  cook.  At  one  time  it  seemed 
the  swimmer  would  have  the  better  of  the  sea,  and  touch 
land  over  by  Stowe  Pound,  as  they  call  the  wall  that 
shows  four-square  at  the  lowest  tides.  And  then 
Lucinda  was  all  triumph  on  his  behalf,  seeing  that  he 
had  swum  so  well,  and  would  have  Oliver  promise  that 
this  man  should  be  found  at  Stowe,  and  made  much  of, 
and  sent  back  to  his  own  country  with  money  in  his 
pocket. 

Then  Sir  Oliver,  his  eye  ever  at  the  glass,  spoke 
chuckle-wise,  making  Lucinda  shudder.     ^'  One  thing  I 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  119 

will  promise,  fairest  Lucy  mine,"  said  he :  "  that  if  you 
will  find  your  man  at  Stowe  and  bring  him  alive  to  the 
Manor,  he  shall  be  fed  like  a  king,  and  not  packed  off 
empty-handed.  Further,  he  shall  have  a  suit  of  my 
clothes,  seeing  he  will  come  ashore  bare  enough,  if  he 
be  not  too  big  to  get  inside  them.  Wilt  thou  be  happy 
with  that  pledge,  Lucy  mine  ?  "  And  then  he  snickered 
again  over  it,  and  Lucinda  knew  what  he  meant. 

^^  Oh,  Oliver,  Oliver !  You  mean  he  will  not  reach  the 
shore!  Is  there  no  boat  can  save  him?  Will  he  not  be 
seen  from  Stowe?  Oh,  let  me  go,  Oliver,  that  I  may 
rouse  them  up.  They  do  not  see  him — oh,  they  do  not 
see  him !  " 

^^  Eun,  Lucy  mine,  if  you  are  minded  to  run.  It  will 
take  an  hour  by  the  road  to  get  speech  of  them  at  Stowe. 
Unless  you  have  a  fancy  to  wade  the  creek,  which  you 
may  do  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  less.  But  your  man  will 
be  drifted  well  out  to  sea  by  then,  if  he  keep  above  water 
at  all.  Try  it,  Lucy  mine,  try  it !  "  Then  the  girl  saw 
how  hopeless  was  this  poor  swimmer's  case,  and  hid  her 
face  and  her  tears  and  her  terror,  while  Sir  Oliver,  still 
on  the  watch  to  see  the  very  last  of  him,  said  now  and 
again,  "  He's  gone !  ...  no,  there  he  is  still !  .  .  . 
how  the  knave  fights  for  his  life !  .  .  .  now  he's  gone 
...  no,  he  floats  on  his  back.  But  he'll  never  reach 
shore  that  way,  you  may  swear  to  that,  Lucy !  "  and  so  on. 
However,  the  end  was  to  come,  and  presently  he  clapped 
to  his  telescope  with  "  Od's  my  life! — he's  done  his  best. 
Come  out  of  thy  head-wrap  and  look  round  for  him, 
Mistress  Lucy — ho,  ho !  "  And  Lucinda  could  love  him, 
strange  to  say,  for  all  this  laugh;  for  she  thought  him 
not  in  earnest,  but  making  a  kind  of  show,  as  of  manhood, 
and  pardoned  what  seemed  to  her  an  excusable  humour 


120  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIS^OE 

of  his,  just  to  plague  her  for  her  weakness,  and  urge  her 
to  greater  strength.  So  besotted  was  she  with  her  blind 
belief  in  his  real  wealth  of  heart. 

"  Oh,  Oliver,  Oliver !  I  dare  not  look  on  the  empty 
sea.     I  am  sick  to  think  of  it." 

"  Silly  wench !  As  though  the  sea  had  never  choked 
a  man  to  death  before!  Next  time  you  look  on  it  for 
pleasure,  think  of  all  the  dead  men  it  hath  in  keeping, 
and  the  bones  of  'em  all,  among  the  fishes.  Now,  when 
are  those  lazy  loons  going  to  turn  out  with  that  boat  of 
theirs  ?  "  On  which  he  drew  out  his  glass  again,  turning 
it  the  other  way  of  the  shore-line,  to  where  he  looked  for 
the  boat  to  come.  And  shortly  after,  at  sight  of  some- 
thing, closed  it  again,  saying  now  we  should  know  if  the 
other  fellow  were  living  or  dead.  Lucinda  then,  follow- 
ing his  sight,  saw  a  small  boat  pushed  off  from  the  land, 
that  lifted  merrily  on  the  waves.  And  then  that  the 
two  rowers  paused  to  hoist  a  white  sail  on  the  bare  mast, 
that  took  the  wind  and  sent  the  little  boat  ascud  across 
the  sparkling  sea.  So  joyous  was  it  in  the  sunlight  as  it 
heeled  over  to  the  breeze,  she  almost  found  it  in  her 
heart  to  forget  death,  and  think  of  the  sweetness  of  life 
alone. 

The  boat  made  straight  for  the  wreckage,  dropping  the 
sail  as  it  neared;  and  then  the  floating  timbers  hid  both 
boat  and  rowers,  but  their  movement  told  of  the  shifting 
of  the  derelict  man  upon  them  into  the  boat.  Which 
being  done,  the  boat  came  clear  of  the  wreck,  and  the 
little  sail  was  up  again  so  quick,  hiding  those  in  the  boat, 
that  Lucinda  had  hardly  time  to  see  that  now  it  held 
three  men,  not  two. 

"  Why  do  they  not  come  hitherward  straight  ? "  she 
asked.    "  Has  not  John  Eackham  told  them  ?  " 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOK  121 

"  How  should  they  come  straight  in  the  eye  of  the 
wind,  foolish  wench?  They  must  make  tacks  to  reach 
us  here.  You  will  see  them  shift  round  the  sail  and  turn 
directly." 

"  They  are  not  turning,  Oliver.  Mine  eyes  have  the 
best  of  it,  for  all  your  telescope.  They  are  heading 
straight  for  Stowe.  I  know — I  know!  They  are  on  the 
track  of  the  man  that  swam.  Oh,  pray  Heaven  they 
find  him !  " 

"  They  are  on  a  f ooFs  errand,  then ;  only  for  the  chance 
of  giving  him  Christian  burial,  if  they  care  for  that. 
However,  he  is  English — -that  much  I  know." 

"But  how?" 

"  As  I  told  thee ;  they  were  of  one  nation,  else  had 
this  one  not  helped  the  other." 

"  But  both  may  be  Dutch." 

"  A  blessing  on  thy  pretty  understanding !  If  they 
were  Dutch,  how  should  old  Thurkill  know  of  the  man 
that  swam  ? " 

"  It  may  be  the  other  spoke  English." 

"  No  English  old  Ben  would  ever  be  the  wiser  for ! 
Trust  him  for  that!  Besides,  the  old  fox  would  never 
go  out  of  his  way  to  pick  up  a  Dutchman.  Depend  upon 
it,  both  of  our  own  side — none  of  the  enemy's." 

And  so  the  talk  went  on  as  they  watched  the  little 
white  sail  fly  over  the  waters,  to  and  fro;  for  Lucinda 
was  in  the  right  of  it,  and  the  boat  was  searching  for 
a  thing  hard  to  find  in  any  sea  not  flat  as  a  mirror — a 
dead  body  just  afloat  and  no  more,  all  but  flush  with  the 
water.  She  could  see  one  of  the  seamen  stand  as  high 
as  he  might,  to  look  down  upon  the  sea  as  the  boat 
lifted.  But,  as  Sir  Oliver  had  said,  they  had  their 
errand  for  nothing,  though  to  Lucinda's  thought  it  was 


122  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

hard  they  should  be  called  fools  for  all  the  pains  they 
were  at.  Still,  she  shrank  not  from  him,  accounting  his 
roughness  but  a  phase  of  speech,  and  no  more. 

An  hour  passed,  and  still  they  sat  watching,  while  the 
little  boat  still  shot  to  and  fro,  searching  the  waters  near 
and  far.  Then,  just  as  Sir  Oliver,  beginning  to  be  im- 
patient for  food,  would  return  to  the  house — for  he  was 
always  well  disposed  for  a  draught  of  wine  or  ale  half- 
an-hour  before  the  midday  meal — it  looked  as  though  the 
searchers  had  wearied  of  their  search,  for  the  boat  turned 
and  made  straight  for  where  they  sat,  getting  the  best 
of  the  south-west  wind,  now  freshening  off  the  shore. 
So  they  waited  there,  and  Lucinda's  heart  beat  hard  to 
see  the  man  who  was  saved.  If  only  he  were  English, 
as  her  lover  thought,  and  might  tell  them  the  story  of 
the  fight,  and  what  man  he  was  whom  they  had  seen 
drown ! 

Scattered  folk  of  the  sparse  fishing  population,  or 
cottagers  from  a  little  way  inland,  whom  the  report  had 
reached  of  someone  saved  from  the  ships,  were  gathering 
along  the  beach  by  now,  waiting  for  the  boat  to  come 
ashore  from  its  search.  As  she  came  nearer,  the  sprinkling 
of  spectators,  converging  to  the  spot  where  they  thought 
her  surest  to  touch  land,  grew  to  a  little  crowd,  abiding 
the  result  in  silence,  or  speaking  among  themselves; 
for  they  knew  of  the  man  who  had  just  gone  under,  and 
as  they  lived  ever  in  the  presence  of  death  by  drowning, 
as  must  be  where  there  are  fisher-folk,  they  could  not 
make  light  of  it,  as  one  may  who  lives  far  away  inland, 
out  of  hearing  of  the  sea. 

The  little  boat  ran  swiftly,  well  nigh  gunwale  under  as 
she  lurched  to  the  wind,  for  it  freshened  still,  blowing  off 
shore;  then  struck  her  sail  close  inland,  to  make  way  for 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  123 

the  rowers  to  work  their  oars  again  for  the  few  yards 
still  needed  to  beach  her.  And  so  she  came  in,  though 
in  less  time  she  might  have  run  slantwise  on  to  the 
shingle,  had  she  carried  no  disabled  man.  But  there 
was  need  for  thought  how  this  man  should  be  least  shaken 
in  the  landing  of  him ;  and  for  this  the  men  ashore  could 
lift  her  easiest  and  run  her  up  clear  of  the  sea,  if  she 
lay  straight  in  at  the  last. 

On  which  Lucinda,  running  ahead  of  Sir  Oliver — for 
the  boat  made  her  landing  a  short  half-furlong,  at  a 
guess,  from  where  they  had  been  sitting — went  close  up 
to  the  stern,  following  her  as  she  was  half-dragged,  half- 
lifted,  out  of  reach  of  the  rising  tide.  Then  says  she  to 
the  man  left  in  her,  who  has  slipped  down  on  the  loose 
planking  for  more  steadiness,  and  lies  to  all  seeming  help- 
less :  ^^  God  save  you,  friend !  Are  you  English  or 
Dutch?" 

But  whether  his  answer  is  in  English  or  Dutch  she 
eannot  tell,  so  little  voice  has  he  left  in  him  to  answer 
with.  But  Reuben  Thurkill,  who  was  with  his  father, 
Ben  Thurkill,  will  answer  for  him.  He's  a  New  Eng- 
lander,  back  from  America.  He  had  told  them  that  much 
on  the  boat. 

Then  says  his  father :  "I  took  him  for  a  Portugal. 
But  thy  hearing  is  better  than  mine,  boy." 

"  Is  his  eyesight  hurt,  that  he  has  a  bandage  over  his 
€yes  ? "  Thus  Lucinda.  And  Sir  Oliver,  coming  up, 
having  taken  his  time,  not  to  show  too  keen  a  curiosity 
about  this  man,  would  have  had  this  bandage  removed, 
to  see  his  face  the  better.  But  Lucinda  besought  him 
against  this  so  earnestly  that  he  gave  it  up;  for  it  may 
be  he  wished  to  stand  well  with  those  dwelling  round 
about,   and  there  were  many  present.      "  Have  him  to 


124:  'AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

the  house,  dearest  Sir  Oliver/'  said  she,  "  and  there  I 
will  take  it  off  with  mine  own  hands,  so  he  may  come  to 
no  harm  in  the  removal  of  it."  And  she  turned  her  mind 
to  the  recalling  of  all  the  remedies  she  had  heard  of  for 
injury  to  the  eyes,  as  the  injection  of  the  gum  of  cedar 
of  Libanus,  or  a  poultice  of  bramble-leaves  boiled  in 
water.  For  in  those  days  all  women  prided  themselves 
on  their  knowledge  of  simple  remedies  that  came  ready 
to  hand;  seeing  it  would  often  chance  no  doctor  could 
be  found  within  a  day's  ride;  and  there  was  none  such 
that  she  had  heard  spoken  of  near  Kips  Manor,  few 
resources  of  civilisation  being  within  reach  now,  since 
the  sea  swallowed  up  the  township  of  which  it  was  a 
suburb  in  ^  the  days  of  Elizabeth. 

But  for  the  moment  it  was  clearly  best  to  leave  his 
face  protected  by  the  handkerchief  the  boatmen  had 
bound  it  with,  and  to  bear  him  up  to  the  house  as  soon 
as  might  be.  It  took  but  little  time — for  seafaring  folk 
are  quick-handed  at  such  work — to  make  a  litter  with  a 
pair  of  oars  and  some  cross-battens  from  the  flooring  of 
the  boat;  Sir  Oliver  promising,  as  though  he  would  have 
all  see  how  great  was  his  liberality  in  so  doing,  to  make 
good  the  sail-sheet  of  good  hemp  cordage  that  was  cut 
in  short  lengths  to  tie  the  framework  across  and  across 
at  the  angles,  spoiling  it  for  all  other  use.  And  thereto 
the  sail-canvas  was  folded  to  a  sort  of  bed,  against  the 
hardness  of  the  battens,  and  the  man  placed  thereon, 
seeming  near  insensible,  and  borne  up  to  the  house  on 
the  shoulders  of  four  young  men,  Lucinda  having  placed 
her  own  light  scarf  to  shelter  his  head  and  neck  from  the 
sun-blaze,  now  at  its  hottest.  For  by  now  it  was  mid- 
day, and  Sir  Oliver  was  impatient  for  food  and  drink, 
as  his  wont  was. 


AK  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOE^OR  12'5 

"  What  said  he  to  you  in  the  boat,  Master  Thurkill  ?  ^' 
said  Lueinda  to  the  old  fisherman. 

"  I  was  slow  to  catch  his  words,  mistress ;  and  thejr 
might  have  been  another  tongue  than  English  of  these 
parts,  to  my  hearing.  But  my  son's  ears  are  younger 
than  mine,  and  he  made  out  another  man  had  been  on  the 
wreck  and  had  swummen  away  for  the  shore,  for  assist- 
ance, if  he  could  light  on  it.  But  he'd  have  had  to  be  a 
rare  swimmer  to  get  this  side  of  the  Scrimbles  in  a  full 
tide.  It  was  him  we  started  out  to  seek.  But  we  found 
nowt  of  him,  and  he's  past  help  now." 

The  young  man  Reuben,  at  his  corner  of  the  litter, 
turned  his  head  to  say :  "  He  was  a  Dutchman,  by  name 
Yanhelst.  This  one  is  English,  but  I  couldn't  be  sure 
to  say  the  name  of  him  right.  .  .  .  What  did  you  make 
it  out  to  be,  father?   ..." 

"  A  Spaniard  sort  of  name.  Malovra — ^Maloovra — ■ 
Vincent.    ..." 

"  There  you  have  it !     Vincent  Malloovara.   ..." 

"  [N"ever  Vincent  Mauleverer  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  mistress !  You  speak  it  better  than  I 
do." 

"  What  has  my  lady  found  so  good  to  laugh  at  ? "  says 
Sir  Oliver,  coming  within  hearing,  having  hung  behind 
some  paces  to  speak  with  John  Rackham,  who  had  just 
ridden  back  from  his  errand,  and  to  rate  him  for  being  so 
long  behindhand. 

"  Listen  to  this,  now,  Oliver !  "  cries  Lueinda.  "  Or 
come  hither  and  guess  the  name  of  the  man  off  the 
wreck.  Thou  wilt  never  guess  it,  that's  certain !  "  And 
then  she  fell  back  to  join  him,  and  they  spoke  apart, 
out  of  hearing  of  the  rest.  John  Rackham,  being  nearest, 
heard  surprise  in  his  master's  voice,  and  that  he  said: 


126  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

^^  What,   your   brother's   name,   in   Virginia !      Od's   my 
life! — two  of  the  same  name,  and  you  knew  it  not." 

But  the  groom  was  a  taciturn  man  and  glum,  who  kept 
all  his  chance  hearings  back,  to  use  them  to  his  advantage 
as  he  best  might.  So  none  knew,  but  himself  and  Sir 
Oliver,  why  the  Lady  of  the  Manor,  as  Lucinda  was 
called  by  the  fisher-folk,  should  laugh  out  in  her  surprise 
at  the  name  of  the  disabled  man  on  the  litter.  And  when 
Mrs.  Trant,  at  the  Manor,  after  asked  it  of  him,  his  reply 
was  that  the  fellow  was  some  Dutch  shellum,  that  being 
a  cant  epithet,  derived  from  a  Dutch  word,  current  at 
that  date,  and  meaning  a  scoundrel — a  worthless  fellow. 
Eut  as  for  his  name,  he  had  had  enough  ado  to  keep  a 
hand  on  his  horse,  which  would  not  give  in  to  the  rein, 
without  listening  to  gibberish.  For  all  tongues  not  his 
own  were  gibberish,  according  to  John  Rackham. 


CHAPTEE  IX 

"  If  his  ejes  be  out,  and  he  knows  not  thy  voice,  nor  my 
name  never  came  to  his  ears  till  now,  plague  take  me  if  I 
see  any  good  to  come  of  his  enlightenment !  "  Thus  Sir 
Oliver,  at  his  wine,  to  Lucinda.  She  for  her  part  is  all 
tears,  and  in  great  distress  at  something  lately  come  to  her 
knowledge.  Her  tirewoman  has  done  her  work  but  ill,  or 
she  herself  has  dishevelled  her  hair  with  a  careless  hand ; 
and  she  has  sent  away  more  dishes  than  one  untasted ;  not 
caring,  she  says,  for  supper  on  so  hot  and  close  an  evening. 

F.or  the  afternoon  of  the  day  has  gone  by,  and  she  knows 
now  who  the  man  is  whom  a  strange  chance  has  brought 
beneath  the  roof  of  her  lover. 

"  But  oh,  Oliver,  is  it  not  hard  to  bear  ?  Think, 
sweetheart,  think!  My  dear  father's  son,  whom  you 
never  saw !  Think  of  the  cruelty,  that  I  cannot  take  him 
in  my  arms  and  kiss  him  as  I  kissed  him  for  farewell  eight 
years  ago  when  he  went  off  to  cross  the  great  sea  alone! 
Eight  long  years  ago!  A  boy,  not  twenty!  And  there 
was  I,  and  there  was  Amy,  and  there  was  my  mother! 
And  none  of  us  could  kiss  him  enough  for  such  a  parting. 
And  now   .    .    .   and  now   .    .    .    !  '^ 

^  And  now  thou  wilt  be  a  fool,  girl !  But  kiss  him,  if 
you  are  minded  to  do  so;  only  tell  him  not  your  name. 
Say  'tis  a  new  fashion,  now  the  King  has  come  to  his  own 
again.  Or,  look  you,  kiss  him  as  he  sleeps;  and,  if  he 
wakes — ho,  ho ! — put  it  off  on  Susan  Trant.  She'll  never 
be  the  worse  by  it !  " 

127 


128  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

"  You  will  always  have  your  jest,  Oliver  mine !  But  I 
know  well  the  pity  there  is  in  your  heart  for  me,  for  all  you 
turn  everything  to  a  merriment.  Never  fear,  though,  that 
yincent  shall  know  me  again  for  his  sister;  it  shall  be 
as  you  say,  sweetheart.  But  if  his  sight  come  to  him 
again  of  a  sudden,  and  he  sees  me  .  :.  .  how  then, 
Oliver?" 

"  Keep  thine  own  counsel,  girl !  What ! — a  little  maid 
of  twelve — a  buxom  wench  of  twenty!  How  should  thy 
brother  know  thee  in  the  face  of  a  firm  denial?  But  it 
must  be  none  of  your  half  strokes — none  of  your  timorous 
will-say  won't-says !  A  good  honest  lie.  Mistress  Lucy !  " 
And  here  her  lover's  face  all  but  made  Lucinda  doubt  him, 
so  dark  was  his  look.  "  He  will  ask  thee  thy  maiden 
name,  and  thou  must  be  ready  with  one,  that  there  may 
be  no  spluttering  over  it,  good-lack!  Else  it  would  be  a 
safer  game  by  far  to  tell  him  out  the  whole,  and  then  if 
he  is  minded  to  cross  swords  with  me  over  what  he  will 
call — ho,  ho! — his  sister's  honour,  why — there  be  swords 
in  the  house  .  .  .  what  ails  thee,  wench?  .  r..  r.  As 
white  as  thy  handkerchief ! '' 

But  though  she  was  white,  and  feeling  sick  and  des- 
perate, Lucinda  was  strong  to  face  the  position.  She 
could  see  reason  in  Sir  Oliver's  words;  and,  worst  of  all, 
that  should  this  brother  of  hers  come  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  truth,  his  first  aim  when  his  sight  returned  would  be 
to  avenge  the  wrong  done  to  an  honoured  name,  even 
though  she  should  pray  him  on  her  knees  to  think  of  her 
as  in  truth  Oliver's  wife  in  the  eyes  of  God,  and  to  spare 
to  her  a  lover  dearer  than  her  life. 

Of  all  confession  of  sin  is  any  so  hard  to  make  as  that 
of  the  sister  who  has  to  speak  it  to  her  brother?  So 
Lucinda  asked  herself,  and  was  gjad  to  leave  the  question 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOISTOK  129 

unanswered;  trying  to  believe  that  all  her  motive  for 
counterfeiting  was  in  reality  her  horror  of  bloodshed;  all 
the  stronger  that,  in  the  fray  that  might  come  about,  the 
victor's  sword — whichever  he  were — must  needs  pierce 
her  own  heart.  She  could  persuade  herself  that,  but  for 
this,  she  would  have  no  hesitation  in  laying  bare  her  soul 
to  her  brother,  and  challenging  him  to  answer  another 
question  she  asked  herself  again  and  again.  "  If  this  be 
sin,  how  comes  it  that  I  feel  no  guilt  ?  "  For  she  would 
have  it  in  her  heart  of  hearts  that  she  who  marries  without 
love  is  a  greater  sinner  than  she  who  loves  without 
marriage.  And  yet,  if  this  be  a  truth,  it  must  be  true 
also  that  one  of  the  Holiest  of  the  Church's  Sacraments  is 
no  more  than  a  mockery,  being  of  no  avail  to  make  right 
a  thing  wrong  in  itself.  But  this  headstrong  girl  is  young 
still,  and  there  is  no  Divine  at  hand  to  make  her  see  how 
the  power  of  God  is  manifested  in  these  His  Sacraments, 
whereof  this  one  of  holy  wedlock  can  make  acceptable  to 
Him  a  thing  His  Wisdom  would  else  hold  damnable, 
however  much  He  in  His  mercy  may  welcome  the  sinner 
who  repenteth.  But  why  need  we  look  so  curiously  into 
the  errors  of  a  wilful  girl  ?  Enough  for  the  moment  that 
she  could  deceive  herself  with  the  thought  that  she  would 
be  consulting  her  brother's  welfare  as  much  as  her  own, 
in  lending  herself  to  the  acting  of  a  falsehood,  as  her 
lover  in  his  cunning  had  suggested. 

"  What  name  would  you  have  me  say  was  mine,  if  I 
must  play  the  liar,  Oliver  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Zounds,  girl,  what  can  it  matter  ?  Any  name  you 
will!  Pepys — Oliphant — no! — say,  if  he  asks  for  it,  as 
he  may  never  do,  that  your  name  was  Asmondeham;  that 
is,  look  you,  the  name  of  the  wife  I  am  wedded  to  and 
cannot  be  quit  of.     You  have  her  place,  so  it  is  no  great 


130  AIS'  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

wrong  to  borrow  her  name.  And  then,  seeing  I  have  told 
you  of  this  thing  and  that  about  her,  you  may  amuse 
his  lordship,  should  he  press  for  more  particulars,  with 
the  like  tales  about  thyself.  So  shall  we  be  safeguarded 
from  contradiction  of  each  other's  stories.  .  .  .  How, 
silly  lass?  Why,  thus — that  if  he  asks  me  privily  what 
part  of  the  country  your  kindred  are  natives  of,  and  I  say 
Shropshire,  we  shall  be  both  of  a  tale.  And  there  again 
an  advantage !  As  thou  knowest  nothing  of  the  Salopians, 
nor  of  Church  Stretton,  whence  her  folk  came,  neither 
will  he,  in  all  likelihood.  So  be  wise  and  do  as  I  tell 
thee." 

Then  Lucinda  thought  to  herself  how  clever  a  man  was 
this  lover  of  hers,  and  being  blind  from  love  of  him,  found 
it  an  easy  task  to  palliate  his  counsel  of  duplicity ;  and  all 
the  easier  that  she  would  thereby  be  safer  in  her  inter- 
course with  her  brother,  and  not  compelled  to  be  al- 
ways inventing.  That  would  have  been  very  little  to 
her  liking;  nor  was  she  confident,  as  some  are,  that 
she  could  make  any  false  history  of  her  own  devising 
plausible. 

The  way  of  her  coming  to  the  recognition  of  her  brother 
was  thus.  He  was  brought  to  the  door  on  his  litter,  always 
unconscious,  as  though  he  slept;  and  then,  the  oars  that 
flanked  it  being  overlong  to  pass  up  the  stairway,  was 
carried  upstairs  on  the  shoulders  of  Reuben  Thurkill, 
roused  and  crying  out  from  pain  of  an  injury  to  his  right 
thigh.  Being  then  placed  with  all  care  and  gentleness, 
but  much  difficulty,  on  a  bed  in  a  room  of  an  upper  floor, 
Lucinda  set  herself  to  remove  the  bandage  from  his  eyes — 
a  thing  that  called  for  a  light  hand,  for  the  face  was 
scorched  over  all,  and  the  eyebrows  and  lashes  burnt  to 


AlSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  131 

mere  black  stubble,  and  all  the  hair  over  his  brows  burnt. 
But  his  chin  and  lips  were  close  shaven,  and  not  so  long 
since.  Lucinda  did  what  she  might  to  ease  the  pain  of 
his  burns;  applying  an  unguent  of  spermaceti,  and  cover- 
ing them  from  the  air  with  cool  applications  of  linen 
dipped  in  water  with  a  little  vinegar.  But  for  his  eyes, 
they  appeared  to  be  in  no  worse  plight  than  any  eyes  that 
seem  to  see,  and  see  not,  or  very  imperfectly:  otherwise, 
except  for  the  injury  to  his  limb,  as  aforesaid,  and  a 
cutlass-wound  in  the  forearm,  of  no  great  seriousness,  and 
a  fair  allowance  of  bruises,  he  seemed  to  have  a  sound 
skin,  and  indeed  to  have  come  very  fortunately  through  a 
fray  such  as  that  of  the  previous  day. 

The  nearest  surgical  help  being  at  Bury  Market,  seven 
miles  away,  John  Rackham  was  despatched  to  find  it,  if 
he  might;  and  seeing  that,  even  if  he  made  the  distance 
over  the  heath  in  half-an-hour,  it  would  none  the  less  be  a 
matter  of  time  to  find  the  man  he  sought,  who  might  be 
miles  away  with  another  patient,  and  to  bring  him  along 
on  some  slow  ambling  pad  to  Kips  Manor,  there  would 
certainly  be  three  hours  of  waiting  until  the  broken  or 
dislocated  thigh-bone  could  have  proper  attention.  So 
when  the  patient  had  drunk  and  eaten,  and  all  that  was 
possible  had  been  done  towards  setting  him  at  ease, 
Lucinda  put  herself  to  find  who  he  was  and  whence, 
never  then  suspecting  the  truth,  and  that  too  in  spite  of 
her  knowledge  that  his  name  was  also  her  brother's.  To 
her  this  was  but  a  proof  that  another  man  had  her 
brother's  name.  And  why  not? — seeing  that  her  brother 
was  in  America. 

Says  she  to  him  then :  "  Can  you,  sir,  now  talk  without 
pain,  to  tell  us  who  you  are,  and  what  we  may  do  best  to 
find  your  belongings;  whether  they  be  kin,  or  wife,  or 


132  'AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOI^OR 

friends  ?  Think  what  rejoicing  there  will  be  among  them, 
to  hear  you  have  escaped  with  life." 

To  which  he  makes  answer :  "  I  would  I  could  know 
first  before  I  tell  of  myself  what  has  befallen  mine  enemy. 
Make  me  but  certain  that  he  has  come  ashore  sound  and 
well,  and  I  shall  be  in  all  the  better  trim  for  the  telling  of 
a  long  story.  Until  I  know  of  his  safety  I  have  no  heart 
for  talking  of  my  own  affairs.  Tell  me,  mistress,  is  there 
no  news  come  to  hand  of  him  ?  '^ 

"  You  speak  of  the  man  who  was  with  you  on  the 
wreck,  who  swam  away  before  the  boat  came — ^why,  I 
know  not.  There  is  no  news  of  him  yet.  But  he  may  get 
ashore  if  he  can  keep  afloat  till  the  slack  of  the  tide." 

"  What  a  fool  was  I  that  I  could  not  keep  my  wits  an 
hour  longer!  If  I  could  have  but  spoken  the  words  to 
keep  your  fellows  to  the  search,  we  should  have  found 
him.  Or,  in  default  of  that,  we  should  have  sought  till 
the  night  fell.  But  I  pray  Heaven  he  has  saved  himself 
by  now." 

'^  Did  you  not  say  to  the  rowers  this  man  was  a  Dutch- 
man?" 

"  He  was  a  Dutchman,  and  mine  enemy.  But  he  was 
my  good  friend  and  brother  for  all  that,  and  I  owe  him 
my  life,  and  would  give  it  gladly  for  his,  or  to  do  him 
a  good  turn.  You,  mistress,  are  the  lady  of  this  house, 
as  I  take  it,  but  I  can  only  see  you  dimly — ^more^s  the 
pity! — as  one  sees  through  a  fog.  Something  has  gone 
amiss  with  my  eyesight,  since  the  great  ship  blew  up  over 
yonder.   ..." 

"  She  was  the  Dutch  Admiral  ?  " 

"  Ay — ^the  flagship.  I  was  aboard  the  Cadmus  frigate 
of  fifty  guns,  gone  to  the  bottom  now,  a  mile  farther  out 
to  sea.     Our  commander  was  Captain  Askew.     We  had 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHQI^OR  133 

just  joined  the  fleet  from  cruising  in  the  Channel,  and 
were  short-handed,  having  sent  home  such  a  many  men  in 
prizes  to  Harwich/' 

^'  Had  there  been  other  fights  then,  before  ?  " 
"  Not  a  gun  fired,  that  I  saw.  For  the  Dutch  fleet  were 
safe  in  the  Texel.  These  were  just  merchantmen,  home 
from  the  Indies,  who  never  had  a  thought  that  war  was 
declared  till  we  sent  marines  aboard  to  tell  'em  they  were 
the  lawful  prisoners  of  His  Gracious  Majesty  King 
Charles.  I  was  sorry  for  the  poor  devils — after  years 
away  maybe ! — all  of  'em  hungry  for  a  meal  at  home,  and 
a  welcome  from  their  wives." 

Then  it  was  that  the  thought  crossed  Lucinda's  mind 
that  this  man's  voice  was  not  altogether  strange  to  her, 
but  only  as  a  passing  wonderment;  for,  did  she  not  know 
her  brother  was  in  Virginia  ?  Knowing  it  for  a  certainty, 
she  imputed  what  was  really  a  recognition  of  him,  in  the 
bud,  to  an  influence,  akin  to  witchery,  of  the  knowledge 
that  her  brother's  name  was  this  man's  also.  Her  mind 
was  not  at  its  best,  said  she  to  herself,  to  judge  of  any- 
thing. See  what  the  tension  of  the  last  two  days  had 
been!  She  was  the  victim  of  nervous  fancies— the  sport 
of  the  moment.  Why,  no  sooner  had  this  illusion  of  his 
voice  taken  possession  of  her,  than  another  must  needs 
come  sharp  on  the  heels  of  it,  that  his  hand  as  it  lay  on 
the  coverlid  was  such  a  hand  as  Vincent's  might  have 
grown  to  be,  given  a  life  of  exposure  such  as  his,  and  con- 
tinual warfare  against  the  red  men  his  letters  had  told  of, 
ill  their  own  forests.  So  strong  was  what  she  as  yet 
counted  a  mere  distemper  of  a  brain  overstrung,  that  as 
he  lay  there  speaking  through  the  linen  cloth  she  had 
thrown  over  his  eyes  to  veil  them  from  the  light,  a  long- 
ing came  on  her  to  raise  it  and  look  again  on  his  face, 


134  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIS^OK 

that  she  might  be  sure  it  was  not  Vincent's.  But  she 
struggled  against  it  as  a  childish  fancy,  and  set  herself 
to  getting  from  him  the  story  of  the  fight  of  yesterday. 

"  Is  it  great  pain  to  you  to  talk  ?  "  said  she.  "  If  so, 
let  me  hear  all  these  things  from  you  another  time." 

"  It  is  no  worse  pain  to  talk  than  to  lie  still.  Indeed, 
talking  suits  me  the  better  of  the  two,  despite  the  trouble 
of  a  bruised  limb.  But  I  would  I  knew  what  has  befallen 
my  good  friend  of  the  wreck,  whom  I  owe  my  life  to.'' 

"  We  may  hear  of  him  soon.  He  was  a  strong  swimmer, 
and  may  have  landed  at  some  far  point  on  the  coast,  and 
though  he  may  have  chanced  on  help  and  a  shelter,  there 
may  easily  have  been  none  to  send  with  the  news  of  his 
safety.  And  further,  how,  I  ask  you,  would  his  message 
be  sent  here,  rather  than  to  the  nearest  town  ?  It  may  be 
the  tidings  will  come  from  Caistorbury,  when  John  Back- 
ham  arrives  with  the  surgeon."  But  Lucinda  only  said 
this  to  soothe  him,  for  she  knew  that  the  folk  at  Kips 
Manor  would  have  the  story  long  before  it  could  reach 
Caistorbury,  seven  miles  inland.  She  said  more  to  the 
same  end,  and  then :  ^'  Tell  me,  did  this  man  save  your 
life?  Was  it  in  the  battle?  But  no! — how  could  that 
be  ?     Was  he  not  your  enemy  ?  " 

The  man  laughed,  and  his  voice  caught  with  the  pain 
his  laugh  gave  him.  "  God's  my  life !  "  said  he.  "  He 
was  my  enemy,  but  one  to  be  proud  of.  If  ever  I  live  to 
face  a  better  sword-stroke,  I  shall  not  live  to  tell  of  it. 
That  was  a  good  fight  on  the  ship's  deck,  and  might  have 
ended  amiss  for  either,  but  for  a  rare  piece  of  luck." 

"  Friend,  you  may  have  been  spared  the  guilt  of  mur- 
der.    But  how  ? " 

"  Am  I  sure  that  I  know  ?  It  came  about,  somehow ! 
I  can't  say  how,  but  either  of  us  was  doing  the  best  he 


AlSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  135 

might  to  strangle  the  other,  or  break  his  ribs,  when  we 
went  overboard  in  a  heap — just  a  tangle,  tight-locked! — 
and,  to  my  thinking,  this  leg  of  mine  struck  the  muzzle  of 
a  carronade,  outside  its  port.  So  when  I  reached  the 
water,  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  swim.  I  could  keep  afloat, 
but  I  could  not  move  on  the  water  for  the  life  of  me.  I 
saw  some  timber  afloat  I  could  have  reached  in  a  moment, 
else.  Then  a  hand  caught  my  hair  from  behind,  and  I  felt 
myself  dragged  by  a  strong  swimmer.  As  soon  as  I  got 
a  firm  grip  of  my  floating  timber,  I  could  see  the  man  I 
owed  my  life  to.  He  was  my  friend — mine  enemy !  I^ow 
you  know,  mistress,  why  my  best  prayer  is  that  he  may 
come  ashore  safe,  and  live  to  be  my  friend." 

Then  it  was  that  Lucinda  said  to  this  man :  "  Praise 
God  for  your  deliverance,  dear  sir,  and  that  He  may 
reward  the  man  who  saved  you.  But  tell  me  now  more 
of  yourself,  and  of  your  family  and  belongings,  if  such 
there  be,  in  England,  that  we  may  lose  no  time  in  com- 
municating with  them,  and  giving  them  news  of  your 
safety.  Think  of  the  great  joy  of  your  wife,  when  she 
hears  that  you  are  not  among  the  slain  in  this  wicked 
encounter.''  She  paused  at  some  disclaimer  or  dissent 
from  her  hearer,  then  went  on,  speaking  with  warmth. 
"  Yes — but  has  it  not  been  vdcked,  when  not  a  man  is 
living  of  all  those  who  fought,  who  has  dyed  his  hand  in 
his  brother's  blood,  but  might  have  called  his  enemy  his 
friend — even  as  you  so  readily  call  this  man  friend  who 
saved  you — and  loved  him  with  a  like  love  ?  " 

"  You  take  my  meaning  wrongly,"  he  replied.  "  I  only 
meant  that  I  have  neither  wife  nor  sweetheart ;  though  for 
that  matter,  long  as  I  have  been  away  beyond  the  seas, 
I  will  stake  my  life  upon  it  my  little  sister  has  not  for- 
gotten me.    And  as  for  the  wickedness  of  him  who  fights 


136  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0K 

for  his  country  wlien  he  is  called  upon,  he  has  mighty 
little  choice  about  doing  so  when  he  is  impressed  into  tha 
service.  He  has  to  serve  the  King,  will  he  nill  he !  And 
he  does  best  who  acquits  himself  well  and  honourably, 
rather  than  turn  traitor  to  his  country  at  a  pinch.  Is  it 
not  a  like  chance  for  all  ?  " 

"  A  like  chance  and  a  deadly  one !  "  said  Lucinda. 
"  Only  believe  me,  dear  sir,  I  meant  no  blame  for  you. 
But  his  guilt  is  great  who  forces  another  to  do  murder 
against  his  will — even  greater,  to  my  thought,  than  that 
of  the  honest  assassin  who  uses  knife  or  poison  to  avenge 
a  private  wrong."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  finished 
her  speech  with :  "  Do  not  let  us  talk  of  it.  Let  me  ask 
of  you  instead  a  great  kindness  to  myself.  You  are  not 
in  trim  for  letter-writing,  and  may  not  be  perhaps  for 
days;  when,  as  I  hope,  your  sight  will  return  to  you. 
For  this  I  see,  that  the  eye  itself  is  uninjured,  and  this 
blindness  is  no  true  blindness,  but  a  thing  of  the  moment, 
bred  of  the  mere  sudden  shock.    .    .    ." 

"  That  I  think  also,  and  hope.  But  what  was  it 
you  said  of  letter-writing,  and  what  kindness  can 
one  in  my  plight  do  in  token  of  his  gratitude.  E"ame 
it,  mistress,  and  it  is  yours,  if  it  be  within  my  reach  to 
grant  it." 

"  It  seems  to  me  much  to  ask,  because  I  am  unknown 
to  you.  ..."  She  paused,  remembering  he  did  not  even 
know  her  name;  then,  without  more  ado,  supplied  it: 
"I  am  Lady  Kay  don,  and  my  husband  is  Sir  Oliver 
Raydon,  and  this  house  is  Kips  Manor,  where  you  now 
are  *  .  .  what?  .  .  .  yes,  I  will  tell  you.  This  I 
have  to  ask  you  is  that  I  may  get  pen  and  paper  here 
and  now,  and  write  straight  away  at  your  dictation  to  this 
little  sister  of  yours,  that  she  may  know  of  your  escape, 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO^OE  137 

and  come  to  be  beside  you  here,  if  indeed  the  distance  be 
not  too  great."  But  his  interruption  had  been  because 
because  it  crossed  his  mind  that  her  name  was  not 
altogether  strange  to  him.  The  pain  of  his  leg  made  slight 
thoughts  lapse  easily,  and  he  answered  her  last  speech  with 
almost  a  laugh. 

^^  Is  that  the  whole  of  it,  Lady  Ray  don  ?  Shall  I 
score  yet  a  little  more  to  my  account  of  gratitude  to 
yourself,  and  then  make  believe  I  am  your  benefactor? 
But  who  so  glad  as  I  that  the  little  wench  should  know 
her  brother  is  living?  Only  this,  dear  lady,  shall  be  a 
condition,  before  I  tell  aught  of  me  or  mine — ^that  no  tale 
of  this  action  shall  be  written,  either  to  her  nor  to  my 
father,  over  and  above  what  I  dictate  myself.  For  I 
would  not  have  them  think  me  crippled — only  in  hospital 
for  a  week  at  most.  For  it  will  be  so,  and  no  worse,  I 
wager !  " 

So  it  was  settled.  Lucinda  gets  pens,  ink,  and  paper 
with  great  joy,  and  seats  herself  at  a  table  by  the  bed- 
side with  all  in  readiness  for  a  start.  But  first  she  will 
write  the  date,  both  of  time  and  place,  and  then  she  says : 
"  Begin  now.  But  not  over-quick.  For  I  write  but 
slowly," 

And  then  this  man  has  begun  to  dictate  his  letter. 
But  why  does  not  Lucinda  write?  Why  does  she  sit  as 
one  dumbfounded,  and  all  agape,  at  the  first  words  he 
utters?  He,  for  his  part,  hearing  no  scrawling  of  the 
pen  on  the  paper,  thinks  that  maybe  she  is  puzzled  by  the 
pet  name  he  has  addressed  this  sister  by — for  he  knows 
it  may  sound  strange — and,  after  a  moment,  repeats  it: 
*^  Dearest  little  Mayjune!  It  is  Lucy's  nickname  from 
a  baby.  'Tis  as  though  one  should  join  the  names  of 
two  months  in  one — ^May  and  June." 


138  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOK 

It  was  a  strange  and  perilous  freak  of  chance  that,  for 
Lucinda!  To  be  forced  to  know,  in  a  single  moment,  a 
truth  her  mind  had  till  then  refused  to  receive,  in  the 
face  of  a  hundred  little  things,  any  one  of  which  might 
have  shown  it  to  her  had  she  been — so  she  thought  now 
— but  duly  shrewd  of  observation!  To  have  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  make,  alone  and  unassisted,  her  choice  of  two 
courses,  either  one  as  full  of  pitfalls  as  the  other.  Should 
she  obey  her  heart,  and  say  at  once  to  this  man — ^who 
surely  was  her  brother  Vincent,  and  no  other,  somehow 
returned  without  warning  from  his  strange  home  beyond 
the  seas — "  I — I  am  Lucinda.  I  am  Mayjune,  whom 
you  left  eight  years  ago  almost  a  baby — just  clear  of  the 
nursery — a  wilful  scrap  of  innocence — and  now  a  woman 
with  a  dire  experience  of  life  and  its  treacheries  "  ?  Or 
should  she  choose  the  course  which  shame  and  fear  and 
prudence  seemed  in  league  to  dictate,  and  leave  him  in 
his  ignorance,  knowing  that  he  need  never  guess  that 
his  sister  is  beside  him,  could  she  but  command  her 
tongue  ? 

But  can  it  be  truly  said  that  in  the  first  shock  of  her 
hearing  who  this  man  was  these  thoughts  passed  through 
her  mind  ?  Rather,  it  would  be  true  to  say  that  she  felt 
sick  with  the  foreknowledge  that  they  would  do  so  soon, 
and  that  an  answer  would  have  to  be  found  for  the  ques- 
tion, Which  shall  it  be,  confession  or  silence  ?  Stunned 
and  dazed,  but  compelled  to  act  that  she  might  keep  tlie 
choice  an  open  one,  she  just  found  voice  to  say,  "  I  see," 
in  answer  to  his  explanation  of  her  own  old  name  in 
childhood,  and  to  write  it  with  a  shaking  hand  and  a 
beating  heart,  glad  that  he  could  not  see  the  unsteady, 
ill-shaped  lettering,  nor  what  she  knew  must  be  her  face 
as  she  wrote. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  139 

And  she  must  hear  him,  too,  as  he  continues,  each  word 
harder  for  her  to  bear  than  the  last: — 

"  *  Dearest  little  May  June '  .  .  .  Have  you  that, 
Lady  Raydon  ? — all  o'  one  word,  you  know,  not  two  .  ,  . 
^  Where  dost  thou  think,  little  pet,  I  write  this  ? '  .  .  . 
Ah,  but  stop  now;  it  is  not  I  that  write.  How  shall  I 
say  it  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  see !  Go  on  thus.  ...  ^  It  is 
not  I  that  write,  as  is  plain  by  the  handwriting,  but  a 
friend  that  you  shall  one  day  know  and  love,  if  I  can 
compass  it,  and  she  deny  me  not.  For  my  right  hand  is 
in  a  sling — a  slight  hurt — it  will  be  sound  again  in  a 
week,  and  I  shall  be  good  for  a  ride  across  country  to 
my  old  home  and  my  dear  father  and  my  little  May  June. 
For  it  is  in  England  that  I  write  this,  and  very  like,  ex- 
cept the  post  travel  quicker  than  I  think,  I  shall  reach 
my  little  pet  the  sooner  of  the  two.'  "...  Then  he 
paused  a  moment  to  say :  "  What  a  shame  is  this.  Lady 
Raydon,  that  I  should  ask  you  to  pen  such  a  false  tale, 
and  like  enough  all  the  while  a  week's  nursing  will  set 
me  on  my  legs  again,  and  give  me  eyes  to  see  what  my 
little  maid  has  grown  to.  For  I  can  only  think  of  her 
still  as  the  bonny  little  maid  she  was  eight  years  ago, 
riding  of  her  pony  Jezebel  with  all  her  black  locks  loose 
in  the  wind.    ..." 

Then  Lucinda  tried  to  speak,  but  her  voice  would  not 
come.  Her  brother  suspected  nothing  wrong,  for  he  still 
heard  the  scratching  of  her  pen,  and  put  her  silence  down 
to  the  claim  of  her  writing  on  her  attention,  outweighing 
his  chat  about  a  child  she  had  no  interest  in.  If  he  could 
have  known  how  this  memory  of  her  little  horse  and  its 
name  had  cut  her  to  the  heart! 

But  the  strain  of  it  all  is  not  to  climax  now.  Her  pre- 
tence of  writing — for  it  is  little  else;  just  an  excuse  for 


140  AK  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

silence  and  to  make  her  seem  preoccupied — is  made  need- 
less by  the  arrival  of  the  surgeon.  Yet  she  will  not  rutt 
— ^not  she!-^to  be  out  of  sight  and  hearing  even  of  her, 
brother's  pain.  She  stays  by  the  surgeon  with  a  strong 
hand  and  ready  eye,  to  kelp  at  a  pinch.  And  all  her 
strength  is  wanted,  as  well  as  John  Rackham's,  to  draw 
the  limb  into  position,  while  the  surgeon — an  original 
who  loves  his  own  way  of  doing  things^ — seated  on  the 
bed,  uses  his  foot  to  effect  the  reduction  of  the  thigh- 
bone to  its  socket.  Which  being  done,  and  the  patient 
helped  against  the  reaction  of  the  pain  with  a  strong 
draught  of  rosa  soils,  he  is  left  to  sleep,  being  by  this  time 
quite  unfit  for  any  further  talk;  and  Lucinda  is  off  to 
seek  for  rest  and  silence  awhile,  to  think  it  all  over,  but 
with  the  knowledge  strong  on  her  that  this  is  her  brother 
Vincent,  and  that  he  can  neither  see  her  nor  dream  that 
it  is  she. 

!N"either  can  he ;  for,  just  as  she  had  once  held  it  impos- 
sible his  name  should  be  her  brother's  other  than  by  H 
chance,  a  hazard,  so  he  held  his  own  certainty  that  she 
could  not  be  his  si^er  reason  sufficient  to  confute  a 
strange  sense  of  Lucy's  voice  in  hers,  th^t  just  touched  Lifl 
mind  and  died. 


CHAPTEK  X 

There  are  women  whose  comeliness  of  face  strikes  no 
man  at  first  sight;  but,  coming  on  him  later,  grows  and 
grows  until  he  wonders  at  the  blindness  that  saw  it  not 
at  the  outset. 

Susan  Trant,  the  farmer's  wife,  was  one  such;  her 
eyes,  that  a  premature  decision  pronounced  too  green, 
growing  daily  in  fascination,  the  more  from  her  silent 
manner,  having  often  the  force  of  speech.  For  she  was 
one  who  saw  much  and  said  little. 

Betwixt  her  and  John  Rackham  it  was  a  question, 
though  neither  had  ever  admitted  it  to  the  other,  which 
should  see  most  or  say  least.  But  whereas  the  groom 
was  glum  and  taciturn  solely  from  inherent  vice  of  blood, 
and  of  a  demeanour  importing  neither  malice  nor  good- 
will to  his  employer,  the  tirewoman's  reserve  had  a 
motive  behind  it,  one  mixed  up  with  an  old  grudge  and 
a  longing  to  avenge  it  that  meant  to  die  hard,  if  it  ever 
died  at  all.  So  far,  a  resentment  of  which  this  tale  may 
speak,  to  give  colour  to  her  conduct  later,  had  lost  little 
if  any  of  its  vigour  of  twenty  years  back,  when  this  same 
Sir  Oliver,  then  no  more  than  a  boy  in  years,  though  a 
man  in  wickedness,  had  made  light  of  the  vows  of  love 
and  constancy  he  had  employed  for  the  betrayal  of  this 
same  Susan,  then  a  village  beauty  on  a  farm  near  by. 
For  whenever  her  husband,  Jonah  Trant,  went  back  on 
the  terms  of  his  marriage  with  her;  taunting  her  with  it 
and  reproaching  himself  that  he  had  not  driven  a  better 

141 


142  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

bargain;  saying,  what  was  two  hundred  pounds  that  it 
should  saddle  a  man  with  a  shrew  for  life? — and  what 
a  fool  had  he  been  not  to  throw  it  back  in  the  young 
squire's  face ! — when  he  did  this,  and  it  was  often  enough, 
Susan,  though  she  found  it  .pleased  her  to  vex  him  still 
more  by  flinging  it  at  him  that  he  had  been  outwitted, 
and  to  her  knowledge  the  two  liundred  might  well  have 
been  five,  seeing  it  was  -Sir  Oliver's  mother,  not  himself, 
would  find  the  money,  yet  at  each  skirmish  of  this  kind 
more  fuel  was  heaped  on  the  fire  of  concealed  anger  that 
she  kept  burning  in  her  secret  heart  against  her  former 
lover  and  betrayer. 

Therefore  this  woman,  for  all  ^he  seemed  smooth  and 
complaisant,  was  never  off  the  watch  for  a  good  chance 
to  clear  scores  with  Sir  Oliver,  more  for  the  slight  he  had 
put  upon  her  in  shifting  her  off  on  a  stupid  clown  than 
for  what  most  would  have  counted  .a  greater  wrong. 
Still,  in  despite  of  this  treasured  prospect  of  revenge,  so 
little  of  reason  was  there,  or  coherency  of  either  love  or 
hatred  in  her  feelings  towards  him,  that  at  a  slight  word 
of  kindness,  a  rough  kiss  in  jest — rany  little  lover-like 
token — -she  would  be  all  his  own  again ;  and  yet,  when 
he  forsook  this  attitude  for  that  of  a  child  sick  of  a  toy 
that  pleased  him  once,  or  that  of  a  master  with  a  rig-ht 
to  obedience,  she  would  bid  farewell  to  any  thought  of 
tenderness  for  him,  and  make  way  for  her  old  brooding 
over  a  day  of  retribution  to  come,  when  he  should  expiate 
the  wrong  he  had  done  her.  She  half  cherished  even 
then  a  thought  behind — that  it  would  be  sweet  for 
her  to  hold  a  jurisdiction  of  pardon,  a  right  of  clemency, 
that,  being  exercised,  would  bring  him  to  her  feet  in 
repentance. 

But    this    thought    waned,    and    that    of   her    desired 


AJS"  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOE  143 

revenge  grew,  in  the  dajs  that  followed  Lmciiida's  arrival 
at  Kips  Manor.  Susadi  Trant's  jealou-sy  of  each,  new 
victim  of  her  former  lover  was  alwajs  tempered  by  the 
thought,  that  this  one,  too,  would  be  flLung  aaide  in  her 
turn,  as  her  predecessors  were,  as  she  herself  had  been. 
Flumg  aside-,  too-,  without  the  chances  she  herself  enjoyed 
of  returning  now,  and  again  to  favour,  as  she  had  been  in 
times'  past,  and  might  be*  agai%  for  all  her  husband  might 
have-  to  say  of  it — for  was  not  Farmer  Trant  the  squire's 
tenansty  and  was;  he  not  safest  from  the  harm  a  landlord 
might  d©i,  and  securest  of  the  boons  a  landlord  naJght 
confe«>  if  he  kept  his  eyes  closed  to  what,  he  could  not 
help*?  But  Lueinda  had  not  been  long  at  th«  Manor 
feefeare;  this,  womsan's  shrewd  eye  saw  danger  ahead. 
CoiJtM  Sir  Oliver  be  trusted  to  tire  of  this  new  favourite, 
.witk  her  xich  beauty  and  her  maicvellous^  grace,  her  voice 
the  palate  ol  the  ear  could  drink  like  wine,  hex  sweet 
hands  whose  warmth  struck  life  into-  the  one:  they 
touched  ? 

As^^  the  datys  were  on,  Susan  watched  stealthily  foar  the 
dawn  of  his  weariness  of  Lucinda^  and  watched  in  vain. 
All  the  stronger  was  the  life  ef  her  resentment  against 
Sir  Oliver  as  she  saw,  each  day  more  plainly,  a  future  of 
entire  neglect.  She  cast  about,  so  far  as  might  be  with- 
out raising  suspicion,  to  find  the  story  of  this  last  Lady 
Eaydoa;  whence  she  came,  and  o£  what  stock.  For  she 
knew  Bi04hing  but  by  hearsay  of  Sir  Oliver's  belongings 
elsewhere,  having  lived  all  her  life  at  her  parents'  farm 
or  her  husband's,  and  having  no  notion;  of  any  town 
larger  in  the  world  than  Caistorbury. 

ISiow  Jdm  Eackham,  the  groom,  wa&  the  only  one  at 
Kips  Manor  who  knew  more  of  the  Old  Hall  and  Sir 
Olivejr's  lawful  wife  than  the  bare  fact  of  their  existence. 


144  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE 

So  Susan  Trant  plotted  continually  to  get  behind  the 
barrier  of  this  man's  stolid  silence,  and  had  the  best  of 
him  in  the  end.  For  she  found  from  him  all  she  wanted 
to  know  concerning  Lucinda,  and  put  her  knowledge  by 
to  use  on  occasion  shown. 

The  way  of  it  was  this:  Mr.  Rackham,  having  it  on 
hand  to  prepare  a  hot  fomentation  for  a  young  horse 
suffering  from  the  strangles,  found  his  way  into  the 
kitchen  in  search  of  hot  water,  having  no  fire  in  the 
stables  since  the  great  heat  of  the  weather.  Now,  his 
manner  of  life  was  that  of  a  recluse,  sleeping  in  the  loft 
above  the  horses,  on  the  sacking  of  a  truckle-bed,  wrapped 
in  a  horse-cloth,  and  rarely  coming  near  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  household;  who,  for  their  part,  were  content, 
none  coveting  the  society  of  this  man,  who  was  always 
morose,  and  when  at  his  best  merely  silent.  So  that  his 
appearance  in  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs.  Trant  was  alone, 
knitting  of  a  pair  of  hose,  was  a  thing  to  speak  some 
apology  for.  Or  it  may  be  Mr.  Rackham's  meaning 
merely  was  that  it  was  none  of  his  own  choice  that  he 
came,  and  always  mixed  unwillingly  with  his  kind,  when 
he  said :  "  I'll  be  here  to  trouble  you.  Mistress  Susan,  no 
longer  time  than  for  the  kettle  to  run.  You  may  take 
my  word  for  it." 

"  Do  you  look  to  have  the  water  boiling.  Master  Rack- 
ham  ?  "  says  Susan  to  him  then.  "  If  you're  content  with 
just  the  bare  heat  to  hold  your  hand  in,  you  won't  need 
to  bide  any  longer  than  you  say." 

"  It  will  have  to  be  on  the  boil,  for  my  money, 
mistress." 

"  Then  you  may  turn  to  and  blow  the  fire.  Master 
Rackham,  or  wait  for  its  burning.  It  will  burn  of  itself, 
one  day,  if  you  have  the  patience  to  wait."     Whereupon 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  145 

the  groom  took  the  bellows,  and  got  a  flame  from  the 
dead  wood,  making  the  kettle  sing. 

The  less  need,  with  a  kettle  singing,  for  a  grudging  or 
hostile  tone  in  negotiating  so  simple  a  matter.  At  least, 
Mrs.  Trant  may  have  thought  so,  for  as  soon  as  the  water 
seemed  like  to  boil  she  spoke  conciliatorily.  "  It's  warm 
work,  a  day  like  this,  to  blow  a  fire  up,"  said  she. 

"  Dry,  mistress !  "  That  was  all,  but  it  was  expressive. 
She  took  the  hint,  and  went  out,  returning  shortly  with 
a  pottle-pot  with  a  crest  of  foam,  at  the  sight  of  which 
Mr.  Rackham  softened.  This  was  the  way  to  his  heart. 
"  I  was  thinking  it  was  about  time,''  said  he  graciously. 

"  You  don't  get  a  glass  of  ale  like  that  at  Croxley 
Thorpe,  Master  Rackham." 

The  groom  had  swallowed  it  at  a  draught,  and  it  was 
getting  at  his  vitals.  It  was  not  a  moment  to  disparage 
it.  "  It  don't  go  down  amiss,"  said  he.  It  was  a  con- 
cession, for  him.  But  he  qualified  it  in  a  moment  after. 
"  It's  a  poor  ale,  too,  to  compare  with  the  old  Squire's 
brew.  None  o'  that  in  these  days!  Young  Oliver,  he's 
all  for  French  wines,  and  old  malt's  forgotten."  This 
man  was  well  over  sixty,  but  not  much  unlike  himself 
at  twenty-six.  The  days  of  Oliver's  father  were  fresh  in 
his  memory. 

"  I  suppose  you  knew  the  old  lady  well.  Master  Rack- 
ham?" said  Mrs.  Trant,  w^orking  cleverly  round  to  what 
she  wanted.  She  worded  her  question  nicely  with  a 
purpose. 

"  Sir  Oliver's  mother  ?  Ah — I  knew  her  well !  Old 
Dot-and-go-one,  we  called  her.  Dead  of  a  broken  heart, 
they  said.     Just  on  fifteen  years  ago." 

"  The  poor  soul — think  of  it !  But  she  was  not  the  old 
lady  I  spoke  of.     The  former  Lady  Raydon,  I  should 


146  AK  AFFAIB  OF  DISHONOK 

have  said."  But  it  ivas  only  a  make-believe  of  Mistress 
Susan  that  she  thought  Sir  Oliver  a  v^ddower.  She  knew 
better  than  to  think  that.  Then  she  would  know  what 
Mr,  Kackham  could  see  to  laugh  at.  W3iereupon  he 
laughed  more. 

"TheTe  be  but  one  Lady  Kaydon/'  said  he.  ^^And 
she's  alive  and  merry  in  London  Town,  and  may  make 
free  at  her  will.  'Tis  a  knot  Master  Oliver  will  be  slow 
to  unloose,  I  take  it,  even  if  she  gives  him  a  handle. '^ 

''  Then  this  is  no  wife  of  his,  but  just  a  woman?  " 

"  Just  a  woman,  Mistress  Susan.  She's  no  better  than 
'ere  a  one  of  ye." 

Then  Mrs.  Trant,  beir^  a  wedded  wife,  and  very 
lenient  to  herself  in  her  own  conscience  for  any  lapse  her 
htasband  chose  to  shut  his  eyes  to,  ^ept  her  ifcongue  irom 
saying  that  Lticinda  might  well  do  penance  in  the  market- 
place, and  from  using  other  choice  phrases  that  would 
^ing — fis,  iar  example,  that  favourite  resource  'of  ^eech, 
the  word  shame,  so  good  to  employ  in  like  cases. 
She  did  this  as  caring  more  to  get  :at  the  story  of  her 
mistress,  wife  or  no,  than  to  sit  in  the  proud  seat  of 
offended  virtue.  Moreover,  she  felt  unsure  of  what 
the  groom's  last  words  meant.  Did  he  know  her  o^vn 
story  ? 

What  did  it  matteT  ?  He  would  keep  silence  about  it, 
except,  indeed,  she  asked  liun  to  do  so,  which  would  be 
givdng  him  an  incentive  to  speech.  Her  object  now  was 
to  find  somewhat  of  Lucinda's  story,  of  her  family,  and 
the  like.  Was  she,  too,  married — ^a  deserter  of  her  proper 
mate!?  Mrs.  Susan's  comely  presence  and  placid  mien 
went  well  with  a  seeming  unconcern  ^s  she  sat  knitting 
for  a  full  minute  before  asking:  "What  was  the  ;girl's 
name  you  said  ?    Tell  jne  it  again." 


AJ^  AFFAJ!K  OF  DISHONOR  Uf 

"  The  name  of  hei!  ?     I  said  nowt " 

"  It.  was  my  mistaking!,  Mr.  Kackham.  And,  after  all, 
'tis  none  of  your  business,  nor  mine.''  Having  said  this, 
she  in  her  cunning  knew  no  more  would  he  needed, 
judging  rightly  that,  the  groom  would  tell  her  before  the 
kettle,  which  still  only  sang,  should  boil  up.  She  knew, 
too,  that  the  less  she  seemed  to  wish  to  hear  the  more 
likely,  he  would,  be  to  tell,  and  knitted  as  one  contented. 
But  her  ears  were  on  the  watch. 

Then  he,  vexed  perhaps  that  he  should  haye  no  pleasure 
in  the  withholding  of  information  from  one  keen  to  obtain 
it,  thought  to  egg  his  questioner  on  to  asking  more. 
"Maybe  none  of  yours,,  misitress,''  said  he.  "But  I 
have  no  need  to  ask  about  it,  seeing  I've  known,  her 
from  a  child.  They  can  tell  you  the  tal'e  anywheres  near 
the  Old  Hall." 

"In  Shropshire?" 

"  Who  said  a  word  of  Shropshire  ? '' 

"  That's  where  she  came  from.  I've  heard  her  tell  it 
herself.  So  ha&  my  mother.  Church  Stretton,  in  Shrop- 
shire." This  was-  said  with  assured  conviction,  for  it  was 
true.  Lucinda  had  followed  her  lover's  advice,  and  had 
given  herself  the  name,  and  other  style  and  title,  of  his 
actual  wife  still  living.  She  had  done  this  in  the  presence 
of  Mrs.  Hatsell,  Susan  Trant's  mother,  relying,  oil  the  old 
woman's  deafness. 

This-  conversation  of  the  maid  and  groom,  you,  see, 
came  about  some  time  after  the  landing  of  her  brother 
Vincent;  but  while,  as  shall  be  shown  later,  he  was  still 
too  blind  to  recognise  her  face.  Keep,  in  mind  that  he 
was  then  still  bed-ridden,  with  the  slow  healing  of  the 
leg,  and  that  Rackham,  the  groom,  had  not,  so  far,  come 
to  know  anything  of  his  name  or  belongings,.    Indeed, 


148  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

the  patient  had  spoken  of  them  to  none  but  Lucinia, 
and  been  overheard  by  none  but  Mrs.  Trant,  who  kept 
her  counsel,  or  her  mother. 

Mr.  Rackham's  pale  eyes  were  not  made  to  open  wide, 
but  they  did  their  best.  Under  the  strain,  each  came 
out  near  the  shape  of  his  mouth,  puckered  up  for  a 
whistle.  But  he  changed  his  mind  suddenly,  and  re- 
covered his  stolidity.  Instead  of  putting  his  surprise 
into  words,  he  said  only :  '^  Belike  you  got  her  name  at 
the  same  time  ?  " 

"  I  might  have,  had  I  not  scrupled  to  listen  closely. 
For  the  name  of  the  place,  it  was  spoken  loud.  But  her 
own  name,  as  I  heard  it,  can  never  have  reached  me 
right.     The  sound  of  it  was  Ass  Mundham." 

Mr.  Rackham's  whistle  came,  after  all.  This  was  too 
much.  "  Why,  mistress,"  said  he,  ''  that's  the  name  of 
the  wife's  family — she  that's  out  at  grass  in  London. 
And  there's  where  she  came  from — Church  Stretton,  in 
Shropshire." 

Mrs.  Trant  preferred  not  to  show  surprise.  "  Of  course, 
this  would  explain  it,"  she  said.  '^  Madam  Lucinda  " — 
no  ^  Lady  Raydon  '  now ! — "  was  speaking  of  the  Church 
Stretton  lady,  his  lawful  wedded  wife — out  at  grass, 
did  you  say  ?  .  .  .  But  come  now,  Mr.  Rackham,  what 
was  her  real  name  ? "  Thus  pressed,  the  groom  gave 
Lucinda  her  name  grudgingly.  She  was  just  little  Lucy 
Mauleverer  at  the  Old  Hall,  that  he  could  remember  from 
a  child.  She  was  always  a  wild  young  filly — never  made 
for  harness. 

"  Is  her  mother  living  ?  "  The  knowledge  that  the 
name  was  that  of  Vincent,  inexplicably,  had  discom- 
posed Mrs.  Trant,  and  she  wished  to  conceal  the  fact. 
This  question  did  to  ask,  as  well  as  another.     No — her 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  149 

mother  was  not  living.  Was  her  father  ?  But  the  kettle 
boiled  suddenly,  and  no  answer  came.  Not  so  suddenly, 
though,  hut  that  Mrs.  Susan  could  see  that  the  informa- 
tion would  have  been  withheld  or  evaded.  There  was 
something  to  be  learned  there,  she  was  convinced. 

So,  as  we  now  know  from  this  talk  of  the  groom  and 
the  tire-woman,  Lucinda  had  done  as  Sir  Oliver  bade  her, 
and  had  clothed  herself  with  a  false  identity  that  she 
might  remain  unknown  to  the  brother  who  had  come 
upon  her  so  strangely.  How  gladly,  a  few  weeks  later, 
would  she  have  gone  back  and  unsaid  her  tale!  For 
the  torment  of  misapprehensions,  bred  of  his  continual 
reference  to  his  home  and  family,  always  unknowing  to 
whom  he  spoke,  kept  her  in  constant  fear  of  a  knife 
through  her  heart.  Indeed,  it  was  little  less,  especially 
when  he  went  back  on  the  tales  of  their  old  days  together, 
when  all  her  longing  was  to  strike  in  upon  his  memories, 
and  compare  them  with  her  own. 

It  was  ill  enough  for  her  to  listen  to  all  this  Vincent's 
speculation  as  to  what  his  old  home  looked  like;  or 
should  he  find  the  old  man  strong  and  well;  or,  of  all  the 
girls  he  knew  in  old  days,  would  there  be  one  left  for  him, 
neither  betrothed  nor  wedded  ?  As  when,  for  instance, 
he  spoke  of  Phyllis  Kettering,  saying  how  he  wondered 
what  sort  of  woman  Phyllis  had  grown  to  be,  seeing 
she  was  the  sort  after  his  own  heart.  For  then  Lucinda's 
leapt  to  tell  how  when  Vincent  said  farewell  eight  years 
ago,  Phyllis,  being  then  fourteen,  had  told  her  with  a 
many  tears  that  she  would  surely  lead  apes  in  Hell, 
except  Vincent  came  back  to  marry  her.  She  did  not 
know  if  Phyllis  were  wed  or  not,  but  what  joy  it  would 
have  been  to  tell  this  little  tale,  half  for  a  joke!  And 
it  was  she  herself  that  had  padlocked  her  lips  thus,  aU 


150  KN  AFPAIE  OF  DISHQiNrOE 

of  her  Q-wiL  evil  choice^  and  who  could  say  tkej  woidd  ever 
be  free-  to  speak  againi 

It  was  worse  still  when,  his  talk  ran  on  herself,  he  being 
all  in  ignorance  whose  were  the  ears  that  heard  him. 
For  then  he  would  teU  of  their  freaks  of  childhood 
together,  that  she  could  have  told  him,  word  by  word, 
seeing  she  reanembered  them  all  as  yesterday.  It  huxt 
her  keenly  to  hear  his  narrative  of  a  particular  incident 
that  was  always  kaown  to  him  and  his  little  sisters  as 
"  The  QnarreV  which  lasted  two  whole  days ;  and 
when  he  related  it  at  a  request  from  her — ^which  was  in 
itself  a  lie — she  could  scarcely  suppress  her  correction  of 
an  error  in  his  version  of  the  story,  and  refrain  from  stop- 
ping him  witk — "  Oh,  but  Vincey,  it  was  me  that  was  to 
be^  the  Ghost,  and  not  Amy  at  all.  It  was  a  shame  f 
But  this,  like  a  hundred  other  things,,  she  had  to  choke 
bajck,.  though  she  felt  sick  with  silence. 

He,  for  his  part,  mended  apace,  and  could  soon  stand 
erect  on  his  feet  again,  and  shift  for  himself.  When  this 
time  came,  each  day  saw  him  move  further  afoot;  and 
hard  his  eyesight  returned  as  quickly,  he  might  safely 
have  given  way  to  his  own  impatience  and  started  across 
country  for  his  father's  residence.  There,  had  his  dream 
of  the  place  as  it  wa«  been  tme^  he  would  have  found 
his  old  father,  all  hale  and  hearty,  only  the  least  bit 
m<3re  grizzled  since  his  last  sight  of  him,  and  that  little 
treasured  pet  of  a  sister — a  woman  now,  of  course ;  that 
couldn't  be  helped!  And  even,  for  his  imagination 
shrank  from  killing  them,  the  dear  old  dogs  and  horses 
of  the  old  time.  Amy,  he  kn€W,  was  dead,  and  their 
mother,  two  years  ago  now. 

But  his  fancies  were  throughout  at  fault.  The  old 
Hall  was  silent  aa  the  grave  that  held  aE  a  m-nrd^er's 


KN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  151 

swDrd  iaad  left  him  of  Lis  father;  and  that  IMe  sister, 
the  jewel  of  his  memory,  was  the  woman  beside  him  now, 
whom  i^  began  to  see  dimly,  but  without  a  thought 
that  she  was  other  than  a  stranger — 'good,  sweet,  and. 
hospitable  to  a  chance  victim  of  ill-luck — hist  stiE  a 
stranger!  And  that  same  genial  host  of  Ms — -for  who 
could  be  more  gracious  than  Oliver  when  he  chose  ? — that 
polished  gentleman  he  w^ould  have  accounted  it  disloyalty 
to  question  or  mistrust,  that  careless,  generous  votary  of 
pardonable  pleasures,  but  withal  that  faithful  husband 
of  an  adored  wife — he,  even  he,  was  his  father's  murderer. 

But  why  should  Vincent  have  suspected  anything 
amiss?  He  might  have  done  so — granted! — -had  his 
eyesight  come  more  quickly  to  his  help,  A  thousand 
little  things  happened  that  a  shreivd  eye  might  hav-e  read 
danger  into,  but  that  no  accompaniment  of  speech  be- 
trayed the  nature  of.  The  very  slowness  iof  his  Tecovery 
helped  the  firmness  of  his  belief  that  this  sweet  hostess 
of  his,  whom  he,  of  course,  adored,  was  rnone  other  than 
she  had  described  herself — ^namely,  Lucinda  Asmonde- 
ham,  married  to  a  neighbour  of  his  father's  whom  he 
had  never  chanced  to  see  himself.  The  tale  served  for 
unsuspicion  such  as  his.  But  it  was  ivith  much  misgiving 
that  she  had  said  Lucinda  in  place  of  the  true  Lady 
Raydon's  christened  name,  Arbella.  Yet  the  risk  would 
have  been  greater  on  the  other  tack,  for  aU  the  household 
and  folk  about  had  come  to  know  her  name  and  could 
have  called  her  by  it,  but  for  respect  of  station.  Now, 
none  of  them  all  knew  that  the  lawful  Lady  Raydon's 
name  was  not  Lncinda;  unless,  perhaps,  J^Dhn  Kackham, 
and  he  spoke  to  a!i<me. 

Having  given  her  own  name,  it  was  safest  to  cfhallenge 
it  as  it  were,  wlien  it  came  again  in  his  first  narrative 


152  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

of  herself,  and  to  say  what  a  strange  chance  was  this 
that  had  given  one  name  to  his  sister  and  herself!  Thus 
more  was  made  of  it  than  needed,  for  talk's  sake;  and 
each  knowing  this,  the  matter  passed  easily  by,  and  was 
easily  forgotten — the  more  so  that  the  name  was  not 
uncommon  in  those  days. 

Which  was  the  greater  grief  to  Lucinda  it  would  have 
been  hard  to  say — to  have  her  brother  thus  near  her,  and 
yet  held  away  from  him  at  arm's  length,  or  to  have  to 
wait  in  vain  the  letter  from  her  father,  that  still  came  not. 
And  thereto  was  added  this  involvement  of  all  her  laby- 
rinth of  difficulty.  What  should  she  do  or  say  when  the 
answer  came  to  the  letter  she  had  written  at  Vincent's 
dictation  to  their  father,  which  answer  must  of  necessity 
make  her  known  to  Vincent,  do  what  she  might  ?  Was  it 
likely  that  her  father  would  omit  all  mention  of  her  own 
dishonour,  and  keep  back  the  name  of  her  betrayer? 
Oh,  the  torture  it  would  be  to  him  to  tell  it!  Why  had 
she  been  so  mad  as  not  to  foresee  all  this,  when  she  gave 
way  to  Oliver's  behest  of  secrecy? 

But  what  was  done,  was  done.  At  least,  the  evil  hour 
was  postponed  that  must  one  day — she  shuddered  to 
think  of  it — ^place  these  two  men  face  to  face,  with  drawn 
swords  between  them.  And  see  now,  what  Vincent  had 
been  on  that  ship's  deck! 

That  letter  she  had  written  for  Vincent,  many  a  word 
of  which  had  stung  her  like  an  adder,  told  the  story  in 
full  of  his  return  from  Virginia.  He  had  made  his  re- 
solve suddenly,  more  from  a  roving  disposition  than  any 
other  cause,  but  stimulated  by  the  offer  of  a  good  passage 
in  a  ship  whose  captain  he  had  confidence  in,  being  an 
old  friend  and  schoolfellow.  In  those  days  good  passages 
across  the  Atlantic  were  not  so  common  as  they  have 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  153 

become  of  late  years.  On  the  voyage  all  went  well,  but 
on  landing  at  Bristol,  he  and  others  on  the  ship  were 
seized  by  the  press-gang,  and  compelled  to  take  service 
on  a  man-of-war  of  his  Majesty's,  then  fitting  in  Plymouth 
Dockyard.  But  could  he  not  have  bought  himself  out? 
asked  Lucinda.  Why,  yes,  so  he  might!  But  a  battle 
was  certain  with  the  Dutch,  and  he  had  never  seen  a 
sea-fight.  He  was  no  craven,  and  'twas  a  great  tempta- 
tion to  a  man  of  spirit.  The  life,  though,  was  of  the 
roughest,  and  now  he  had  once  been  half-crippled  in  the 
King's  service,  he  was  the  less  minded  to  serve  again, 
except  it  should  be  on  occasion  shown,  as  in  the  event 
of  a  national  danger.  For  that  was  the  temper  of  men 
in  those  days,  and  to  the  thinking  of  him  who  writes 
this,  it  had  a  good  side  to  it,  as  well  as  a  bad  one,  for  then 
all  men  were  not  only  given  up  to  mere  commercial  gain, 
as  now,  and  lives  of  luxury  at  home.  This,  however,  is 
not  for  the  story  to  determine.  Vincent's  letter  went 
on  to  tell  of  the  cruiser  in  the  Channel  and  of  how  the 
ship  joined  the  fleet,  by  a  rare  stroke  of  luck,  just  in  time 
for  the  battle.  Twelve  hours  of  a  head-wind,  and  they 
would  have  lost  it! 

Then  he  told,  at  too  great  a  length  to  resume,  the  story 
of  the  fight.  His  own  ship,  heeling  over  somewhat  from 
a  cause  he  could  not  explain,  was  struck  below  the  water- 
line  by  more  shots  than  one  of  a  broadside  from  the 
Dutch  Admiral;  and  when  all  of  the  Dutch  fleet  that 
were  in  sailing  trim  put  out  to  sea,  and  the  signal  for 
pursuit  was  hoisted  on  the  Duke  of  York's  flagship,  his 
own  was  waterlogged,  and  no  better  than  a  sheer  hulk. 
On  which  her  Captain,  Askew,  being  in  doubt  whether  to 
man  the  boats  and  make  for  the  shore  or  to  try  his  luck 
at  the  capture  of  the  Dutch  Admiral,  still  above  water, 


154  AE  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOXOK 

put  the^  question  to  hia  crew^  to  say  &lMWild  it  be  the  oaa 
wsLj  or  ihe  otken  Who,  being  aJll  of  one  mmd^  wev&  toid 
out  tO'  their  boats,  Vincent  himself  being  in  the  foremost 
boat,  at  his  omn  wisL,  All  but  one  boat  to  cariry  those 
already  woimded  ashore,  far  it  was  now  certain  the  ship 
would  not  be  long  afloat. 

Then  came  the:  fight  on  the  deck  of  the  Dutck  Admiral, 
which  waiS  alreadj  known  to  Liieinda,  seeing,  she  had  in 
a  sense  been  witness  of  it,  through  the  hearing  of  Sir 
Oliver's  running;  comment,  as  it  passed  before  his  eyes> 
And  then  saya  she,  staying  the  writing  for  a  moment: 
"  What  became  of  the  boat  with  the  waunded  men? 
They  came  not  ashore." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Vineent.  "  But  the  odds  are  they 
delayed  their  landing,  for  they  would  have  been  keen  to 
see  the  boarders  at  work,  and  like  enough  hung  about  too 
near  for  safety,  to  see  what  was  doing.  But  for  my  part, 
I  saw  nothing  to.  tell  of,  being  dizzy  with  the  shake  I 
got  falling;  and  I  had  barely  come  to  mj  thinking  senses, 
and  used  my  sight  to  see  that  the  man  who  had  saved  me 
was  my  friend  I  had  that  tussle  with  on  the  deck,  when 
the  Dutchman's  powder-magazine  must  needs  catch  alight, 
and  off  she  gpes !  A  fine  sight,  but  I  would  I  had  looked 
the  other  way  about,  now.  For  something  aflame  struck 
me  across  the  eyes ;  and  for  the  rest,  you  know  it  as  well 
as  I  do,  Lady  Eaydon." 

The  letter  being  «)on  finished,  for  Lucinda  used  a  free 
hand  in  transcribing  all  her  brother's  gratitude  to  herself, 
what  was  to  be  done  about  the  sending  of  it,  seeing  that 
her  father  would  know  who  was  spoken  of  as  Lady 
Eaydon,  even  without  the  help  of  the  handwriting  and 
the  date,  Kips  Manor?  There  could  be  but  one  Kips, 
Manor.    And  how  should  her  father  be  able  to  guess  at 


A¥  AFJFAIK  OT  DISH0:N'0E  155 

once  iier  many  reasons  for  her  concealment  from  her 
brother  ?  M  was  a  problem  beyond  her  powers  to  solve, 
and  she  could  take  none  but  Sir  Oliver  into  her 
confidence. 

"  Foolish  wench ! ''  said  he.  "  Did  I  not  tell  thee  that 
a  lie  half-told  saves  no  man  from  the  gallows  ?  '^ 

^^  Eut,  dearest  Oliver,  I  can  see  no  lie,  nor  colour,  nor 
gloss,  that  I  can  put  upon  it,  that  will  make  me  right  in 
my  father -s  eyes,  say  what  I  may!  And  yet  I  feel  no 
shame  of  my  own  falsehood  to  poor  Vincey,  seeing  I  act 
for  his  sake,  and  to  hold  over  all  cause  of  quarrel  till  we 
are  free  to  wed,  and  the  clouds  gone.  Oh,  Oliver,  it  will 
come — the  happy  time !  " 

"  And  think  you  ]V£aster  Vincent  will  be  all  forgiveness 
when  it  does  come,  fairest  Lucy  ?  ^' 

"  As  for  Vincent,  I  know  not ;  but  for  my  father,  him 
I  am  sure  of.  And  dost  thou  think,  sweetheart,  his  bid- 
ding would  have  no  weight  with  the  boy?  For  I  grant 
you  Vincey  is  ii  boy,  and  headstrong !  '' 

Then  Sir  OHver's  face  got  that  fiame  look  Tipon  it  that 
it  had  that  morning  when  he  fell  stricken  by  the  falling 
sickness  at  the  ISTew  Hall,  no  such  long  time  since.  Long 
enoug'h,  though,  for  Lucinda  to  have  begun  building  hopes 
that  that  evil  might  be  counted  a  thing  of  the  past — a 
thing  never  to  recur  again. 

He  paused  a  moment,  to  find  something  to  say  that 
would  not  stick  in  his  throat — the  throat  of  an  old  liar, 
and  experienced.  He  found  nothing  better  than :  '^  Thy 
father,  my  girl,  will  say  little  enough,  I  doubt  not.  But 
as  for  what  you  had  best  write  to  him  now,  I  see  no  harm 
to  come  of  telling  him  why  you  have  thought  it  best 
that  your  brother  should  be  kept  in  ignorance.  Can  you 
explain   it   eke?      It   is    no   uncommon   thing   to   hood- 


156  AlSr  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

wink  a  sick  man  for  his  own  sake,  so  he  may  live  at  ease 
till  his  natural  strength  is  his  own  again,  rather  than 
have  care  on  his  mind  to  throw  him  back."  He  paused 
a  moment,  a  little  proud  of  his  device  for  setting  present 
difficulty  at  rest ;  then  added,  in  a  lighter  mood :  "  For 
my  part,  I  see  nothing  to  be  gained  by  keeping  the  truth 
from  him.     Thou  mayst  tell  him,  lass,  for  all  I  care/' 

Thereupon  Lucinda,  thinking  to  herself  how  clever 
and  how  good  at  heart  was  this  lover  of  hers,  and  seeing 
her  way  out  of  an  embarrassment  at  least,  sits  down  and 
writes  a  long  letter  to  her  father,  to  go  with  Vincent's, 
explaining  all  her  action  in  the  sense  of  Sir  Oliver's 
suggestion.  Having  finished  it  to  her  liking,  she  shows 
it  to  him,  not  without  pride,  and  happier  in  her  mind; 
begging  that  John  Rackham  may  ride  with  it  forthwith, 
that  her  father  may  have  it  at  the  earliest.  For  then 
he  will  surely  write  back  to  her  and  break  his  long 
silence,  which  is  still  bitter  to  her  heart. 

Sir  Oliver  read  both  letters  through — for  she  had  asked 
Vincent's  leave  to  show  his,  for  the  sake  of  its  tale  of  the 
battle— with  a  "Humph!"  for  this  and  a  "So!"  for 
that;  but  an  approval  in  the  end,  under  protest.  The 
letter  would  do  no  harm,  at  least.  He  could  have  no 
secret  under-grin  at  Lucinda's  ignorance;  his  own  knowl- 
edge went  too  near  the  quick,  and  left  him  no  heart  for 
amusement. 

But  who  so  willing  as  he  that  the  letter  should  go? 
Give  it  to  him!  He  would  direct  it  and  see  to  it  that 
John  Rackham  lost  no  time  over  despatching  it.  And 
thereupon  he  took  it  away  with  him  to  his  little  private 
room,  and  put  it  in  safety  in  his  wicked  cabinet.  But 
for  security  he  folded  and  directed  a  counterfeit  letter, 
that  he  might  seem  to  hand  it  to  the  messenger  with 


AN  AFEAIE  OF  DISHOXOE  157 

others  of  his  own,  so  that  no  suspicion  might  hang  about. 
And  mj  lady  was  to  see  it  if  she  asked,  said  he;  whereon 
John  Rackham,  feeling  some  roguery  afoot,  held  his 
peace;  but  took  good  care  this  letter  should  be  visible 
in  his  hand  when  his  mistress  had  sight  of  him  departing 
to  carry  it  to  the  Cobbler  with  Two  Wives,  where  the 
local  carrier  would  take  it  on  to  the  new  post  in  the 
London  Road,  to  await  the  new  Government  Mail.  On 
seeing  which,  Lucinda  was  happy,  and  could  tell  her 
brother  it  had  gone  off  safely,  and  he  might  look  to  have 
an  answer  within  a  month. 


CHAPTEK  XI 

SiE  Oliver  was  gloomy  and  morose,  passing  much  of 
his  time  in  his  sanctum,  and  leaving  his  guest,  after  the 
midday  meal,  to  the  entertainment  of  his  mistress,  hav- 
ing no  misgiving  that  any  ill  could  come  of  his  doing  so. 
He  knew  now  the  relation  of  the  two  to  each  other;  judg- 
ing of  Vincent  that  he  was  not  a  man  of  his  own  type, 
but  one  who,  in  spite  of  his  solderlike  qualities,  had  a 
trace  of  what  he  called  a  psalm-singer  about  him.  Were 
not  Cromwell's  Ironsides  brave  fighting-men,  and  yet 
practised  what  some  look  on  as  the  common  decencies  of 
life  ?  This  Oliver  accounted  such  practice,  for  some  strange 
reason,  as  akin  to  psalm-singing.  Besides,  psalm-singer 
or  no,  Vincent,  being  blind,  was  in  the  dark  to  the  beauty 
of  Lucinda.  No — there  could  be  no  miscarriage  of  event 
there!  Oliver  drank  his  sack  in  solitude,  without  a 
qualm  of  uneasiness;  and  indeed  his  judgment  was 
shrewd  enough  to  measure  rightly  the  safety  of  the  posi- 
tion, his  observation  from  afar  of  the  curious  habits  of 
honourable  men  and  sweet-hearted  women  having  given 
him  an  insight  into  their  ways  that  he  could  not  have 
acquired  from  any  knowledge  of  himself. 

But  a  great  black  shadow  was  over  him  in  his  solitude, 
and  he  knew  he  had  courted  it  for  the  selfsame  reason  that 
had  made  him  flinch  away  from  Lucinda  on  that  accursed 
day  of  the  duel  with  her  father.  He  was  apprehensive, 
too,  that  this  shadow  might  mean  what  it  meant  then; 
and,  if  he  was  to  fall  insensible  again,  and  wake  again 

158 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHON^OR  15^ 

without  control  of  tongue  or  sequence  of  thought,  why — 
let  him  at  least  be  alone !  Who  could  tell  what  he  might 
not  say  in  his  wandering;  and  that,  too,  in  the  presence 
of  the  son  of  the  man  he  had  slain?  Slain  in  fair  fight, 
mind  you,  not  murdered — nothing  of  that! 

So  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  that  John  Rackham 
rode  with  the  letter — which,  though  fairly  directed  with- 
out, was  so  much  blank  paper  within — Lucinda  and  her 
brother,  to  whom  she  was  still  almost  invisible,  talked 
together  of  his  departure,  which  would  not  be  long 
delayed,  seeing  how  quickly  he  was  improving.  For  each 
day  he  could  walk  farther,  and  see  more  plainly. 

"  I  could  ride  with  a  guide  to  show  the  way,  Lady 
Raydon,"  said  he,  "  if  I  could  not  see  my  own  hand.  But 
that  is  nothing.  My  only  reason  for  delaying  to  relieve 
my  kind  host  and  hostess,  whom  I  can  never  thank 
enough,  of  my  company   ..." 

"  Say  nothing  of  that."    .    .    . 

"  Well — did  your  generosity  not  forbid  my  speech  of  it^. 
it  would  be  a  good  reason,  at  least  ...  I  mean  that  I 
would  soonest  be  able  to  see  my  old  dad — dearest  of 
fathers,  Lady  Raydon — when  I  come  back  to  him  after- 
eight  long  years  of  absence.  And  my  little  Lucinda — 
your  namesake,  dear  lady — think  of  my  perplexity,  to 
find  her  a  tall  woman  to  the  touch,  her  lips  and  mine  own 
so  near  of  a  level,  and  to  see  but  a  shadow,  as  I  see  you 
now  to  my  sorrow.  Then,  mark  you,  by  that  fact  hangs 
another  reason,  and  a  sound  one.  It  would  suit  my  liking 
ill  to  leave  this  hospitable  house  having  seen  so  little  in 
the  way  of  fair  vision  of  my  kind  host  and  hostess.  Is 
it  not  hard  that  I  should  carry  away  no  true  image  of 
either?" 

Then  Lucinda,   under   the   torment  of  words  fraught 


160  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOXOK 

with  a  hundred  accidents  of  cruelty  for  her,  made  a  slip 
of  speech.  '^  Oh,  Vincent,"  she  cried  out  in  her  confu- 
sion, "  how  can  you  stay  too  long  ?  "  And  thereupon  sat 
aghast  at  her  mistake. 

But  she  had  less  need  than  she  thought  for  her  em- 
barrassment. It  may  be  that  the  wdnds  of  the  broad 
Atlantic,  and  the  great  silences  of  the  primeval  forest  of 
Virginia,  had  worked  together  to  the  weeding  out  of  her 
hearer's  mind  the  petty  usages  of  speech — the  little 
formalities  of  address  nicely  balanced  to  suit  each  speaker 
in  his  grade  of  life — till  it  seemed  to  him  none  so  strange 
a  thing  that  a  lady  should,  for  sheer  graciousness,  and 
no  other  reason,  call  him  by  his  proper  name.  For 
whatever  cause,  her  use  of  it  had  no  disconcerting  effect 
on  him,  but  made  him  laugh  out  with  pleasure;  saying 
thereafter,  as  one  who  felt  his  own  laughter  strange: 
"  Ay,  but  one  who  has  lived  as  I  have  for  so  long,  some- 
times months  away  from  a  woman's  voice,  may  well  feel 
it  sweet  to  hear  his  own  name  in  the  mouth  of  a  lady. 
'Tis  a  foretaste  of  the  joy  I  shall  have  to  hear  it  once  more 
from  the  lips  of  my  sister,  your  namesake.  Lady  Eaydon." 
To  which  she  answered  nothing,  being  at  a  loss  for  speech, 
but  always  glad  he  could  not  see  the  confusion  of  her 
face.  Nor  did  his  next  words  make  it  less :  "  I  could  have 
thought  she  spoke,  the  little  Lucy;  for  to  my  fancy — 
'tis  but  a  fancy,  I  warrant — ^your  voice.  Lady  Raydon, 
and  hers  are  not  unlike." 

Then  Lucinda,  calling  to  mind  a  thing  Sir  Oliver  had 
said,  and  not  to  seem  too  silent,  replied :  "  It  is  a  fashion 
of  the  day,  since  the  King  came,  to  be  freer  of  speech 
with  the  christened  name  than  was  the  custom  formerly." 
And  he,  hearing  the  effort  in  her  voice,  thought  it  came 
of  an  apprehension  that  she  had  seemed  to  sanction  a 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  161 

like  familiarity  in  him :  and,  to  relieve  it — for  what  could 
he  know  of  these  fashions  of  the  day? — went  off  to  ask 
questions  of  the  Court,  and  of  the  beloved  King,  Charles, 
whose  accession  de  facto  had  not  come  about  till  three 
years  after  his  own  departure  for  the  Colony. 

In  such  chat  much  of  that  day  passed:  for  Lucinda, 
meeting  little  encouragement  from  Sir  Oliver,  when,  as 
once  or  twice  happened,  she  went  to  relieve  his  solitude 
or  persuade  him  to  be  more  sociable,  felt  warranted  in 
giving  all  her  society  to  Vincent;  accompanying  him,  as 
the  coolness  of  the  evening  set  in,  in  a  walk  along  the 
sea-shore,  and  hearing  again  the  incidents  of  the  fight. 
Wherein  it  was  a  great  happiness  to  her  that  her  brother, 
looking  out  seaward  w^hen  she  spoke  of  the  Dutch 
Admirals  masts,  still  visible  above  w^ater,  exclaimed  that 
he,  too,  could  see  them,  but  dimly.  For  he  had  begun 
to  find  distant  objects  growing  clearer  in  his  field  of 
vision,  out  of  proportion  to  the  improvement  of  his  eye- 
sight of  nearer  objects,  which  nevertheless  mended,  though 
slowly.  Now  this  was  a  great  cause  of  rejoicing  to  both, 
even  more  than  the  gain  of  strength  to  his  injured  limb, 
and  the  subsiding  of  pain  at  the  joint. 

Therefore,  when  Sir  Oliver  reappeared  at  supper,  mak- 
ing formal  apology  to  his  guest  for  his  neglect  of  him,  on 
the  score  of  headache  and  a  wakeful  night — of  which  Lu- 
cinda had  observed  nothing — the  talk  soon  turned  on  this 
great  amelioration  of  Vincent's  eyesight,  and  its  good 
promise  for  the  future.  Sir  Oliver,  to  make  amends  for 
his  neglect,  would  go  to  the  cellar  and  bring  up  one  or 
two  bottles  of  the  fine  wine  of  Frontignan,  that  was  so 
great  a  favourite  with  his  father.  For  there  were  still 
a  few  bottles  left  of  those  brought  from  Croxley  Hall  two 
years   since,    and    it    was    but    right    to    drink    to    Mr, 


162  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE 

Mauleverer^s  returning  eyesight  in  a  choice  draught,  and 
ungrudgingly.  Which  Lucinda  promised  to  do  also,  re- 
joicing that  her  lover  should  be  in  such  good  heart 
again. 

Now  this  was  a  rare  old  wine — ^would  open  the  nig- 
gard's purse  and  loose  the  tongue  of  secrecy  itself.  What 
wonder  these  three  should  chat  freely,  though  two  of  them 
had  cause  to  keep  a  guard  on  speech,  and  one  of  the  three 
was  ever  on  the  watch  against  himself.  And  yet  to  out- 
ward seeming  Sir  Oliver  was  the  least  restrained,  the 
most  careless  of  them  all. 

"  Another  bumper,  Mr.  Mauleverer,"  said  he.  "  I 
would  you  could  see  the  colour  of  it — the  golden  ruby 
against  the  light."  For  Mrs.  Trant,  with  a  little  waxen 
taper  from  the  kitchen,  was  lighting  up  the  candles  in  the 
candelabrum  of  Murano  glass  his  grandfather  brought 
from  Venice  in  the  days  of  Queen  Mary;  seeing  that  the 
coloured  glass  and  diamond  panes  of  the  great  window, 
looking  away  from  the  sunset,  stinted  the  twilight  it  had 
left  upon  the  land,  and  Sir  Oliver  had  no  mind  to  sit  in 
the  half-dark. 

Said  Lucinda  then :  "  Mr.  Mauleverer  may  yet  see  the 
colour  of  it  ere  he  goes,  Oliver  mine,  if  you  and  he  drink 
not  the  last  bottles  at  too  prodigious  a  pace.  For  I  trust 
thee  not,  good  Oliver — I  trust  thee  not — and  I  tell  thee 
so  plainly." 

"  I  will  give  thee  the  key  of  the  cellar,  sweet  Lucy," 
says  Oliver  then,  all  smiles.  *^  Thou  shalt  be  the  warden 
of  it  for  the  nonce.  But  here  is  my  toast!  May  our 
guest  have  his  sight  again  in  a  se'nnight.  Or,  for  my 
part,  by  sunrise  to-morrow !  " 

Thereupon  Vincent  laughs  out,  roundly :  "  Better  still, 
Sir  Oliver !  " — says  he.     "  Best  of  all !     For  then  to- 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  163 

morrow  shall  I  have  a  sight  of  my  dear  hostess.  And  I 
will  spend  this  night  in  dreaming  of  what  she  may  prove 
to  be  when  day  comes.  For  no  man  needs  his  eyes  to 
dream  withal. '^ 

"  And  you  will  dream  all  wrong,  dear  Sir.  My  word 
for  it!  And  then  you  will  be  disappointed  on  awaken- 
ing. So  dream  me  not  too  comely,  Mr.  Mauleverer." 
Lucinda's  laugh  rang  with  a  full  music  through  the  house. 
And  Susan  Trant  laughed  aloud  too,  as  she  placed  the 
second  bottle  by  her  master.  For  in  those  days  there  was 
not  the  stiifness  of  our  later  time  'twixt  master  and  serv- 
ant, and  it  was  thought  nothing  that  a  serving-man  or 
maid  should  join  in  with  the  talk  at  table ;  only,  the  head 
of  the  household  would  check  such  talk,  if  need  were. 
Now,  at  this  laugh  of  Mrs.  Trant's,  Sir  Oliver's  eye 
rested  on  her  for  a  second,  but  did  not  stay  to  meet  hers. 
And  when  his  voice  came,  it  had  no  true  ring  about  it; 
neither,  indeed,  had  the  woman's  laugh,  which  might 
have  served  for  as  plain  a  slight  as  she  dared  on  her 
mistress's  beauty.  But  as  to  his  artificial  manner,  it 
meant  no  more,  may  be,  than  that  he  was  acting  a 
part. 

"  That  were  a  hard  task  for  the  most  skilful  dreamer, 
Lucinda  mine !  "  said  he.  "  Put  it  not  on  Mr.  Mauleverer 
to  achieve  it."  His  tone  was  that  of  a  courtier's  com- 
pliment. "  But  I,  too,  have  an  interest  in  his  eyesight. 
Have  I  not  a  right  to  be  curious  as  to  what  my  friend 
thinks  of  my  choice  of  a  wench  ?  " 

Then  Mrs.  Trant,  at  the  sideboard,  laughed  again  un- 
pleasantly, and  spoke  aside  to  her  mother.  But — so 
Lucinda  thought — if  old  Hatsell  can  hear  that,  she  can 
hear  much  folk  think  her  deaf  to. 

Sir  Oliver  heard  the  laugh,  and,  dropping  his  courtier's 


164  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

tone,  condescended  to  jest  with  an  old  retainer.  "  Speak 
it  up,  Mistress  Susan.  No  secrets,  I  pray  you.  .  .  . 
What  was  it  she  said,  Goody  ITatsell  ?  " 

The  old  woman  heard  his  raised  voice,  and  answered, 
"  Said  first  choice  is  ever  best  choice,  master."  At  which 
Sir  Oliver  could  make  believe  to  laugh.  "  Ho,  ho,  my 
Lucy ! — dost  thou  hear  that  ?  First  choice  is  best  choice 
— who  knows  that  better  than  Susan  Trant  ?  "  For  he 
felt  so  sure  of  his  hearers,  and  that  Susan's  underthought 
would  be  plain  to  none  but  her  mother,  that  he  did  not 
shrink  from  a  trifling  that  amused  him.  And  the  brutal 
jest  of  a  little  sting  for  an  old  mistress,  under  the  very 
eyes  of  his  new  love,  neither  knowing  the  other's  mind, 
was  congenial  to  his  soul. 

Now  the  half-blind  Vincent,  listening  to  this,  was  at  a 
loss  to  think  whether,  when  he  left  England,  such  talk 
was  only  unknown  to  him  because  he  was  but  a  boy, 
before  whom  some  reserves  would  be  practised ;  or 
whether,  perhaps,  this  manner  of  speech,  spoken  by  a 
gentleman  of  his  wife  before  a  guest  at  his  own  table, 
might  not  be  a  part  of  these  new  fashions,  crept  in  with 
the  new  Court?  Certainly,  even  in  Virginia,  strange 
stories  were  already  afloat  of  the  wild  days  of  the  young 
King  and  his  former  life  in  France.  But  there! — after 
all,  what  was  there  in  Oliver's  pleasantry  ?  It  came  to 
very  little,  all  said  and  done.  Maybe  he  himself  was 
old-fashioned. 

But  it  gave  him  a  discomfort,  and  set  him  a-seeking  to 
change  the  conversation.  He  could  and  did  tell  many 
things  of  the  late  revolt  against  His  Sacred  Majesty — who 
could  have  dreamed  then  that  Englishmen  would  live  to 
see  Members  of  Parliament  daring  in  the  House  of 
Commons  to  stand  up  and  side  with  the  colonists  in  a  still 


Al^  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  165 

greater  revolt  against  their  King? — and  of  his  own 
wanderings  in  savage  lands,  where  no  white  man  had  set 
foot  till  then.  But  whatever  turn  their  conversation 
took,  it  would  always  drift  back  to  the  joy  that  would  be 
his  when  he  should  once  more  set  foot  in  the  old  home; 
where  still  his  fancy  pictured  the  old  man  his  father,  and 
the  little  sister  of  his  boyhood,  scarcely  changed,  for  all 
his  reason  told  him  to  the  contrary,  from  the  child  he  left 
eight  years  ago,  innocent  and  unblemished  by  the  world. 
And  if  it  was  a  pang  to  the  woman  she  had  grown  to  be 
to  sit  and  listen  to  him  as  he  dwelt  on  his  happy  delusion, 
what  was  it  to  the  man  whose  hand  poured  out  his  wines 
for  him,  in  mock  good-fellowship,  to  know  that  the  blood 
of  that  same  father  was  still  fresh  upon  it?  But  so 
hardened  was  its  owner  in  his  sin — so  unmoved  by  any 
thought  but  of  his  own  safety  till  such  time  as  he  should 
weary  of  the  woman's  beauty  that  he  now  possessed  body 
and  soul — that  he  could  fill  his  guest's  glass  and  his  own 
and  show  no  tremor  visible  without;  nay! — that  he  was 
even  proud  to  do  so,  and  could  talk  lightly  the  while,  and 
make  a  parade  of  his  indifference.  Was  it  not  a  deed  of 
honourable  battle,  as  much  so  as  this  guest's  would  have 
been,  had  he  slain  his  foe  on  the  deck  of  that  sunk  ship 
over  yonder?  A  truce  to  these  puling  regrets!  He  was 
not  even  the  challenger! 

"  Which  of  the  two  shall  I  see  the  first  ? "  cries  Vin- 
cent, dwelling  on  the  joyous  anticipation.  "  Come,  Sir 
Oliver,  a  wager!  Which  shall  it  be — father  or  daugh- 
ter— dad  or  little  Mayjune  ?  Say,  which  will  you  back  ? — 
and  name  the  odds." 

Then  Lucinda's  heart  said  to  her,  "  Never  little  May- 
june again  any  more,  in  this  world.  Those  days  are  gone, 
and  can  never  come  again."     And  she  answered  her  own 


166  AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO^^OE 

heart,  and  said,  "  Let  it  be  so !  He  shall  still  see  me, 
and  know  my  love  as  of  old.  And  when  I  am  free  to  tell 
my  tale,  will  he  not  forgive  me,  my  brother?  Are  men 
so  free  of  sin  ? "  And  then  she  thought  to  herself  that, 
cotdd  such  a  man  be  found,  it  may  be  he  would  cast  no 
stone,  seeing  that  our  Lord  Himself  cast  none,  being  sin- 
less. But  how  if  he  should  say,  "  Go  and  sin  no  more  "  ? 
Would  she  not  answer,  "  My  soul  must  die,  then — for  I 
love J " 

But  Sir  Oliver  is  only  weighing  in  his  mind  the  safest 
answer  he  can  give  to  Vincent's  jesting  proposal.  "  Clear 
me  up  this  point,"  he  says.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of 
^  first  sight,'  in  your  case  ?  Suppose,  for  instance,  the 
first  to  greet  you  should  be  your  father,  and  the  first  to 
your  eyesight  your  sister — how  then?" 

"  Why,  truly — I  should  have  seen  my  father  first.  .  .  ,, 
Yet  no  I — I  should  see  my  sister — it  is  true." 

Lucinda,  at  cost  to  herself,  must  join  in  the  talk,  if  only 
for  form's  sake.  "  Mr.  Mauleverer  should  have  said  meet, 
not  see,'*  she  says.  And  then  she  gets  up  and  goes  to  the 
window,  and  stands  looking  out  to  the  afterglow  in  the 
west.  Enough  is  left  of  it  to  gleam  in  the  folds  of  the 
satin  brocade  of  her  dress,  and  match  its  colour  against 
the  mirrored  candlelight  within.  But  the  hand  trembles 
that  pushes  open  the  window-lattice,  and  the  eyes  that 
look  out  through  it  glisten  in  the  light,  no  longer  dry. 
Can  Lucinda  bear  this  talk — of  herself,  mind  you! — of 
herself  ? 

Sir  Oliver  is  safe,  and  knows  it.  What  can  Vincent  see 
of  the  tear  that  zigzagged  down  the  satin  brocade,  as  she 
passed  him  but  now  on  her  way  to  the  window?  Sir 
Oliver  can  see  it,  or  its  fellow,  even  as  she  stands,  some 
way  from  him,  courting  the  twilight.    But  he  knows  he  is 


a:n^  affaik  of  dishois^or  igt 

safe,  as  his  eye  rests  furtively  upon  her.  She  will  not 
unsay  her  tale  of  herself,  her  claim  to  his  living  wife's 
name,  and  face  her  brother's  reproach  of  her  dishonor. 
So  confident  is  he  of  this  that  he  can  play  with  the  subject. 
His  pleasantry  would  be  devilish  to  her,  were  she  not 
besotted  with  her  love  for  him,  woman-like. 

''  What  shall  we  make  the  wager,  Mr.  Mauleverer  ?  A 
hundred  to  one  against  the  father  .  .  .  yes,  I  will  hold 
to  it !  .  .  .a  hundred  to  one  in  the  King's  new  coin  of 
Guinea  gold — listen,  Lucinda  mine! — a  hundred  to  one 
he  meets  not  thy  father  first!  ..."  But  his  speech 
stops  with  a  jerk,  and  his  face  flushes  hot  with  anger  at 
himself  for  his  blunder.  He  cares  nothing  for  that;  he 
knows  his  guest  cannot  see  it.  But  he  must  right  himself, 
somehow,  and  sees  nothing  better  for  it  than  to  repeat, 
"  the  father,  not  the  sister !  " 

For  Lucinda,  turning  from  the  window  with  panic  in 
her  face,  was  crying  out:  ^'  Oliver,  what  art  thou  talking 
of?  Thou  hast  drunk  too  freely  of  the  old  French  wine, 
foolish  man!  Come  away,  and  have  done  with  it,  and  I 
will  sing  thee  a  new  song  thou  hast  not  heard."  Where- 
upon he,  thinking  it  best  to  be  guided  by  her,  suffers  her 
to  lead  him,  for  a  dizziness  has  mounted  to  his  head. 
And  Vincent  follows  unguided,  for  he  can  see  enough  to 
find  his  way,  easily  helped  by  a  touch  here  and  there,  on 
the  furniture  or  doorpost,  or  what  not.  He  is  wondering 
in  his  mind  to  see  his  host,  who  has  drunk  glass  for  glass 
with  himself,  to  all  seeming  unsteady  on  his  feet;  while, 
lame  though  he  be,  he  feels  secure  upon  his  own.  But  he 
has  scarcely  heeded  the  slip  of  Sir  Oliver's  tongue,  that 
made  such  a  pother  but  now. 

Though  Vincent  missed  the  slip  Sir  Oliver's  tongue 
made,  there  were  ears  that  heard  it  in  the  room,  other 


168  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHO^^OR 

than  his.  Mrs.  Hatsell  was  back  at  the  sideboard,  un- 
noticed but  noticing.  And  when  she  returned  to  the 
kitchen,  her  hands  full  of  table-gear,  her  daughter,  en- 
gaged upon  the  preparation  of  coffee,  had  a  mind  to  know 
why  my  lady  had  called  out  so  of  a  sudden.  For  she  was 
always  inquisitive  and  watchful  of  all  that  passed  between 
her  master  and  mistress. 

"  There'll  be  a  tale  to  tell,  one  day,  there,"  said  her 
mother.  "  And  there'll  be  villainy  in  it.  And  thou 
knowest  the  name  of  the  villain,  as  well  as  I  do,  Sue.'' 
Then  she  repeated  what  she  had  heard,  saying  it  all  came 
of  a  seeming  innocent  wager,  and  that  of  a  sudden  Sir 
Oliver  had  lost  his  tongue  and  turned  the  colour  of  a  red 
peony.  Also  that  the  Lady  Lucy  had  caught  up  his 
speech  at  a  word,  touching  of  her  father,  or  Master 
Mauleverer's.  "  Ay — but  which  ?  "  asked  her  daughter. 
And  then  she  put  her  mother  through  a  close  catechism, 
impatiently  blaming  her  for  an  old  fool,  that  she  could  not 
use  her  senses  more,  and  make  some  shift  to  find  out  what 
was  going  on  under  her  eyes. 

But  you  may  trust  me  for  this,  that  this  woman  took 
very  particular  note  of  all  she  could  get  from  her  mother, 
comparing  her  tale  point  for  point  with  what  she  already 
knew  from  the  groom,  John  Rackham.  And  it  shows  her 
cunning  and  secretive  mind,  that  though  she  laid  by  the 
knowledge  she  got  from  each,  to  use  as  occasion  might 
arise,  she  said  never  a  word  of  what  either  had  told  her 
to  the  other.  And  thereafter,  by  little  signs  and  tokens, 
stray  words  of  chat,  and  comparison  of  by-notes,  she 
settled  it  in  her  mind  that  some  untold  tale  was  behind 
it  all;  and,  more  than  that,  John  Rackham  could  tell  it. 
But  to  make  inquiry  of  this  man  was  only  to  excite  his 
suspicion  and  increase  his  taciturnity. 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  169 

So  let  the  story  leave  Susan  Trant  at  this  point,  to 
think  out,  if  she  can,  a  means  to  get  at  the  heart  of  John 
Rackham's  secret,  and  go  back  to  Lucinda  and  Sir  Oliver 
and  Vincent,  now  in  the  room  adjoining  the  bedroom  and 
Sir  Oliver's  private  cabinet.  There  all  that  is  of  service 
for  music  such  as  Lucinda  can  command  is  to  be  found, 
rather  than  in  the  larger  room  of  state  below,  which  has 
not  been  used  for  many  years  past.  And  Lucinda,  seated 
at  her  virginal,  looks  through  a  music-book  to  come  on 
some  song  that  shall  meet  her  lover's  approval,  he  being 
nice  of  choice,  and  capricious. 

But  if  Sir  Oliver  was  tempersome,  and  hard  to  please, 
what  could  it  matter,  with  such  a  delighted  listener  as 
Vincent,  whose  hearing  was  insatiable  for  song  after  song  ? 
Those  who  have  ever  been  stinted  of  music,  for  a  long 
spell  of  time  together,  know  the  joy  of  its  sweet  sound 
breaking  afresh  into  the  arid  silence.  That  was  his 
case,  as  he  sat  and  dwelt  upon  her  voice  and  its  concord 
with  the  tender  notes  of  the  virginal — a  quill-struck  dain- 
tiness, unlike  the  harsher  tone  of  our  piano-forte^  as 
it  is  called,  now  becoming  so  common  that  the  harpsi- 
chord and  clavichord  of  our  fathers  may  look  to  be 
forgotten. 

But  Sir  Oliver  struck  in  at  about  the  third  song. 

^'  These  are  no  novelties,"  said  he.  "  Bring  out  thy 
new  song,  Lucy  mine;  let's  have  it,  and  no  more  ado!" 
For  he  was  always  keen  to  prove  that  some  interruption 
was  afoot  to  thwart  his  wise  ruling.  But  Lucinda  knew 
this  way  of  his,  and  thought  nothing  of  it.  She  sought 
among  the  various  scrolls  and  sheets  of  written  music 
beside  her,  saying:  "  It  is  just  an  old-time  ballad  to  sing 
by  the  fire  of  a  winter  evening."  And  having  found  it, 
she  sang  it  through,  all  but  the  last  two  verses,  which 


170  AN  AFEAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0II 

she  omitted  at  a  sign  of  impatience  from  Oliver,  who 
swore  lie  had  had  enough  of  that 

It  was,  indeed,  a  longish  ballad;  yet,  having  got  thus 
far,  it  seemed  unreasonable  in  Sir  Oliver  to  hold  out 
against  its  completion.  But  his  reason  was  clear  in 
his  heart.  For  the  ballad  was  a  tale  of  a  girl  whose 
lover,  having  been  forbidden  her  father's  house,  never- 
theless receives  him  there,  in  defiance  of  his  orders, 
in  his  absence.  Whereupon  he,  returning  unexpect- 
edly, and  finding  the  intruder  concealed,  draws  his 
sword  upon  him,  and  pays  the  penalty  of  his  rashness, 
being  slain  outright  by  the  younger  and  abler  swords- 
man. 

Now  Lncinda,  having  her  face  away  from  Oliver,  who 
sat  back  in  the  dim  light,  had  sung  thus  far  through 
the  sweet  recurring  music  of  a  strange,  fascinating 
melody — being  herself  taken  by  its  charm,  however 
much  the  rugged  wording  of  the  verses  grated  on  her 
tongue — until  she  reached  a  point  where  the  girl  in 
the  story  strives  to  persuade  her  lover  to  conceal  him- 
self from  her  father's  anger.  She  had  just  completed 
these  verses: 

"  *  I  cannot  hide  me  in  a  withy  basket, 
Nor  yet  in  a  chest  of  oak, 
Nor  yet  in  the  chimney  above  the  hearth 
For  the  stifling  of  the  smoke. 

"  *  Let  me  begone  by  the  window,  sweet! 
'Tis  a  step  to  the  ground  below.' 
*  Nay,  listen,  my  love,  and  hidden  thou  ^alt  be 
In  a  place  that  none  doth  know.' 

**  She  has  opened  a  wainscot-door  in  the  wall, 
Was  hidden  from  all  men's  sight. 
'  Now  keep  thy  sword-point  closer  to  thy  side, 
That  the  door  may  shut  outright.' 


AN  AFEAIK  OF  DISHONOR  171 

•  Her  father  lie  looked  in  the  withy  basket. 

And  the  lid  of  the  chest  raised  he. 
*  Now  where  hast  thou  hidden  Lord  Ferrers  of  the  Dyke, 

Whose  kiss  on  thy  lips  I  see  ?  ' 

'  He  has  flung  the  door  in  the  wainscot  wide, 

And  a  curse  is  all  his  speech. 
They  be  two  strong  men,  with  choler  at  heart. 

And  a  sword  in  the  hand  of  each." 


At  this  point  it  was  that  Sir  Oliver  cried  out,  with 
seeming  unreason :  "  What  a  plague  is  all  this  ?  Enough 
of  it,  my  Lucy!  Leave  such  stuff  for  ballad-mongers 
at  a  wayside  inn  and  sing  me  something  merry."  But 
his  voice  was  not  that  of  a  man  ready  for  mirth  and  did 
not  consort  well  with  his  words.  Lucinda,  not  seeing 
his  face  and  knowing  nothing  of  his  hard-set  look,  and 
livid  colour,  could  but  laugh  and  say:  "I  have  sung  all 
my  songs,  sulky  Oliver  " — for  she  never  scrupled  to  jest 
with  him — wilt  thou  have  them  all  over  again?  What 
shall  it  be  ?  *  O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roam- 
ing ? '  "  For  this  was  a  great  favourite  with  them,  and 
they  would  speculate  whether  twenty — in  the  last  verse — 
was  the  age  of  the  lady,  or  the  number  of  kisses,  or  both. 
But  Oliver  gave  no  answer  beyond  a  short  sound  behind 
closed  lips. 

Vincent,  however,  was  all  agog  to  hear  the  end  of  the 
ballad-tale,  and  took  it  amiss  that  he  should  be  balked 
of  it.  "  Is  it  not  hard,"  said  he,  "  to  stop  thus  on  the 
edge  of  a  battle,  and  not  know  which  was  the  better 
swordsman — the  girl's  father  or  her  gallant?  Another 
wager,  Sir  Oliver.  I  back  the  father,  for  a  side-stroke 
of  compliment  to  my  own.  Never  was  a  better  rapier- 
thrust  than  his,  and  I'll  be  bound  it  is  so  still — ^for  what 
are  a  few  years  at  his  time  of  life  ? " 


172  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

Then  Lucinda  all  but  cried  out :  "  Oh,  Vincent,  pray 
God  he  never  use  his  dreadful  skill  .  .  .  ! "  But 
she  stopped  herself  in  time,  though  her  lips  had  begun  to 
form  his  name,  saying  instead :  "  Leave  your  silly 
wagers,  good  geese,  and  I  will  sing  the  rest  of  the  song, 
for  all  that  Oliver  may  say  to  the  contrary.  Now  lis- 
ten  ...!  " 

"  *  Now  God  save  either,  or  God  save  both, 
God,  save  my  love,'  she  said. 
*  For  all  that  a  woman  could  give  have  I  given, 
Although  that  we  be  not  wed.' 

"  The  white  swords  flash,  and  the  white  swords  glint, 
And  the  white  swords  glint  again. 
And  God  hath  granted  the  woman  her  prayer, 
But  her  father  he  lies  there  slain. 

"  Oh,  he  lies  slain  in  his  good  red  blood. 
And  none  shall  hide  it  never. 
And  none  shall  assoil  a  murderer's  soul 
From  the  curse  of  God  for  ever." 


When  the  song  ceased,  Vincent  spoke  out  his  pleasure 
and  approval.  '^  It  was  as  well  for  me,  though,  Lady 
Raydon,"  said  he,  "  that  no  odds  were  named  of  my 
wager.  I  might  have  lost  a  good  round  sum."  .  .  . 
But  as  he  chatted  on  thus.  Sir  Oliver  struck  in  suddenly, 
and  his  voice  seemed  harsh  and  out  of  place  in  a  conversa- 
tion that  had  no  tone  of  earnestness  in  it — just  light  words 
of  pastime,  and  no  more. 

"  A  mighty  wise  ballad  that ! "  cried  he.  "  A  pretty 
tale,  that  a  man  who  slays  his  adversary  in  fair  fight  is  a 
murderer!  What  shall  we  be  told  next?  Shall  we  all 
be  murderers,  if  by  a  stroke  of  ill-luck  our  man  gets  slain 
by  a  thrust  none  ever  meant  should  kill  ?  A  point  goes 
an  inch  too  far,  forsooth,  and  then  a  man  is  a  murderer! 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R  173 

Who  shall  be  safe  except  he  sit  at  home  and  eat  gruel  by 
the  fireside?  No — I  tell  thee,  Lucy,  it  is  a  foolish  song, 
and  the  less  one  hears  of  such  a  song  the  better!  "  For 
Lucinda,  not  a  little  perplexed  that  he  should  take  so 
slight  a  matter  as  a  mere  song  to  heart,  had  gone  to  sit 
by  his  side  to  cajole  and  soothe  him,  as  was  her  wont  in 
any  of  his  fits  of  moroseness. 

But  Sir  Oliver  is  not  to  be  soothed,  and  almost  makes 
as  though  to  shake  her  off  rudely.  Whatever  is  it  that 
should  cause  all  this  turmoil,  thinks  Vincent?  But  he 
can  only  distinguish  that  Lady  Raydon  has  seated  her- 
self beside  her  lord  on  the  couch  he  half-lay  on,  a  moment 
since,  listening  to  her  song,  on  which  he  now  sits  forward, 
shunning  the  gentleness  of  her  touch  upon  him,  and 
wiping  across  his  forehead  with  a  tremulous  hand.  Had 
Vincent  more  eyesight,  he  might  see  how  grey  is  Oliver's 
face — how  colourless  his  lips!  But  he  can  hear  the 
catch  in  his  voice,  its  effort  to  be  unconcerned  and  still. 
And  all  for  a  mere  ballad !  Who  could  have  guessed 
that  his  host  would  turn  out  this  manner  of  man? — that 
his  polished  ease,  his  high-bred  mettle,  would  of  a  sudden 
give  place  to  an  hysterica  passio,  sl  sheer  affection  of  the 
nerves  ? 

Then  he  hears  the  sweet  speech  of  Lucinda — a  sure 
sedative,  he  thinks,  to  this  excitement.  But  no! — if 
anything,  it  makes  it  worse.  For  Sir  Oliver  turns  round 
upon  the  ballad,  venting  his  anger  on  the  puppets  of  the' 
story,  just  as  though  they  were  truly  living  creatures. 
"  I  will  none  of  it,  I  tell  thee !  "  he  shouts.  "  And  what 
was  the  fool  of  a  girl  about,  to  hide  the  fellow  away  in 
the  wainscot?  Could  she  not  have  known  her  father 
would  know  all  the  rat-holes  better  than  she?  Serve  her 
well  right  for  her  folly,  say  I."   .    .    .     And  he  mutters 


174  AN  AFFAIE  OF  I)ISHO:^OR 

on  to  himself,  with  a  shouted  word  now  and  again,  out 
of  all  measure  or  proportion  to  the  cause  that  has  pro- 
voked it. 

Vincent,  half-ready  for  a  laugh,  but  keeping  it  back 
lest  this  should  be  some  strange  distemper  of  his  host's 
brain — well  known  to  his  wife,  but  such  as  she  might 
easily  have  said  nothing  of,  for  prudence'  sake — ^would 
gladly  help  her,  if  he  might,  but  feels  the  ground  insecure 
beneath  him.  Still,  he  may  go  so  far  as  to  say :  ^'  What 
are  they  all,  dear  Sir  Oliver,  but  just  the  puppets  of  a 
galanty  show  at  a  fair  to  amuse  children  ?  "  Then  at  an 
uneasy  laugh  from  Sir  Oliver — for  it  caught  in  his  throat 
— he  adds :  "  To  my  thought,  the  old  man  was  the  fool 
to  cross  swords  at  all  with  a  young  ruffler.  Unless, 
indeed,  he  could  use  his  weapon  like  my  father.  And 
where  would  this  gay  young  minx  have  been  the  better 
had  her  lover  been  the  dead  man  ?  " 

Sir  Oliver  made  a  better  laugh  of  this,  and  drew  a 
breath  of  ease.  "  Well  spoken,  Mr.  Mauleverer,"  he  said. 
^^  He'd  had  his  will,  I  take  it.  But  he  never  could  wed 
the  girl  with  a  sword  through  his  guts." 

"  But  need  he  have  died  of  it — need  he  have  died  ?  " 
cried  Lucinda,  in  such  a  taking  about  the  ballad-folk  that 
Vincent  could  not  but  wonder,  as  she  went  on :  "  For  my 
own  part,  I  am  sorriest  for  the  girl,  sinner  though  she 
were,  as  the  word  of  the  world  is.  Oh,  but  think  of  it, 
Oliver  mine ! — to  see  her  own  father  lying  there  in  a  pool 
of  his  own  blood,  and  the  man  she,  like  enough,  loved 
standing  by  with  his  guilty  sword !  "  Then  she  mistook 
the  odd  sound  that  came  from  Oliver  for  some  sort  of 
protest  or  dissent,  and  must  needs  go  on.  "  Kay,  but 
fancy  it,  dearest  love ! — had'st  thou  slain  my  father,  and 
I  stood  by  to  see  it  .    .    ." 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  17^ 

But  she  gets  no  farther,  for  Oliver,  starting  up  from 
where  he  sat  beside  her,  with  an  awful  cry,  stands  for  one 
moment  rigid,  then  falls  headlong,  foaming  at  the  mouth 
and  writhing.  And  his  mouth  is  all  awry,  and  his  eyes 
have  gone  upward,  just  as  they  did  on  that  night  of  his 
sleep-waking  a  month  since.  Of  this,  though,  Vincent 
sees  nothing;  but  he  can  see  this  much — that  Sir  Oliver 
is  on  the  floor,  and  Lady  Raydon  is  kneeling  over  him, 
loosing  his  collar  at  the  throat  for  air. 

Then  a  thing  happened  that  a  many  persons — and  those^ 
too,  not  uninformed  on  matters  of  the  like  sort — may 
easily  cry  out  upon  as  a  thing  impossible.  For  as  Vin- 
cent, dumb-stricken,  and  almost  dizzy  at  the  terrible 
unearthly  sound  of  the  epileptic's  cry,  stands  unable  to 
help  for  lack  of  sendceable  eyesight,  as  well  as  for  the 
impediment  of  his  hurt,  all  that  he  half-sees  becomes 
suddenly  clear  to  his  vision,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
has  more  than  a  mere  guess  what  this  host  of  his  is  like, 
and  what  this  owner  of  a  lovely  voice.  In  a  word — 
and  so  strange  a  tale  will  not  be  made  less  so  by  lengthen- 
ing of  it  out — he  can  see  in  a  flash,  as  it  were,  the  whole 
image  of  the  room  before  him,  and  he  wonders — ^will  it 
go  or  stay?  But  he  has  no  need  to  fear;  it  will  hold. 
There  it  is  still !— ^Lucinda  kneeling  in  her  beauty  by  the 
writhing,  jerking  figure  on  the  floor;  the  women  of  the 
household,  hurried  would-be  helpers  with  no  succour  to 
give ;  the  last  word  of  the  sunset  through  the  open  lattice ; 
the  candles  on  the  spinet  guttering  to  their  end  in  the 
warm  night-wind;  the  music-sheets  scattered  about.  He 
who,  a  moment  since,  saw  but  dim  images,  as  through  a 
mountain  mist,  can  now  discern  well  and  clearly,  as 
though  his  eyesight  had  never  been  at  fault. 

Being  thus  free  of  all  impediment,  his  maimed  limb 


176  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

apart,  should  not  his  first  thought  be  the  offer  of  some 
help  at  need,  even  though  the  manner  of  it  may  be  hard 
to  choose  ?  If  it  be  so,  it  is  a  thought  that  never  comes 
to  action.  For  he  remains  speechless  and  motionless, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  kneeling  woman,  as  though  some- 
thing his  new  power  of  sight  brought  with  it  had  struck 
him  dumb.  And  she,  for  her  part,  in  her  despair  at  this 
bitter  grief,  this  sudden  resurrection  of  a  foe  she  had 
dared  to  think  dead,  seeing  nothing  but  the  seemirg 
agony  of  the  face  she  loves,  contorted  by  the  cruel  malady 
she  cannot  understand,  has  no  heart  to  ask  or  hope  for 
help  from  him.  What  can  he  do,  or  any  man?  What 
may  be  done  she  does,  with  ready  presence  of  mind.  Cold 
water  for  the  brow,  and  the  palms  of  hands  hard  to  un- 
clench— freedom  for  the  throat,  and  a  cork,  as  the  doctor 
had  told  her,  to  keep  the  teeth  from  the  already  bitten 
tongue  and  clear  the  way  for  breath,  and  there  is  the 
whole  of  her  resources  in  a  few  words.  And  now  nothing 
is  left  but  to  send  Mrs.  Trant  to  despatch  John  Rackham 
to  ride  full-speed  for  assistance,  first  of  all  to  Bury, 
though  her  belief  is  small  indeed  in  the  medical  help  to 
be  had  there  or  elsewhere.  Still,  it  should  be  summoned, 
for  what  other  can  she  hope  for? 

The  fit  subsides,  and,  as  before,  Sir  Oliver  lies  breath- 
ing heavily  where  he  fell,  and  she  fears  to  have  him 
moved.  Nor  would  anything  be  gained  by  doing  so. 
Raise  his  head  on  pillows,  and  wait!  Nothing  else  can 
be  done;  all  human  succour  is  at  a  loss.  The  fiend  that 
has  possessed  him — for  that  is  all  her  thought,  not 
knowing  its  folly  as  we  know  it  now  in  our  day — will 
leave  him  free,  in  God's  own  time.  For  us,  what  is  left 
but  patience? 

Then  she  turns  to  Vincent,  never  dreaming  he  can  see 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOJSTOK  177 

her,  still  less  that  in  a  moment  he  will  know  her.  At 
the  moment  so  dumbfounded  is  he  with  bewilderment, 
he  cannot  be  truly  said  to  know  anything. 

All  his  bewilderment  is  in  his  voice.  "  In  Heaven's 
name,  who  and  what  are  you  ?  "  And  the  eyes  that  she 
still  supposes  to  see  her  but  dimly  are  fixed  upon  her  in 
all  intelligence,  but  with  terror  in  them,  or  something 
like  it. 

Her  first  thought  is  despairing.  Is  there  no  God  in 
Heaven  that  this  should  be  the  moment  chosen  for  the 
climax  of  her  perplexity — for  the  forcing  of  a  confession 
to  her  brother  ?  Her  words  are  only :  "  Oh,  but  why  this  ? 
.  .  .  why  now  ?  .  .  . ''  Could  not  the  blow  have  struck 
her,  she  would  say,  at  a  less  afflicted  moment  ? 

Then  in  an  instant  he  sees  nothing  but  her  pain,  and 
the  solution  of  the  mystery — look  you! — can  wait. 

"  IN'ot  now — not  now ! ''  he  cries.  "  Let  it  bide.  Let 
it  be  what  it  may!  Count  me  as  nothing,  for  the  love 
of  God !  "  And  his  words  are  not  so  wild  but  that  she 
can  understand  them.  No  thought  of  him  is  to  add  a 
bitterness  to  her  bitter  lot — is  not  that  his  meaning? 

She  can  see  that  he  sees  her  more  visibly  than  hereto- 
fore. But  she  has  no  conception  how  plain  his  sight  has 
suddenly  become.  She  thinks,  at  least,  that  the  tears 
that  are  obscuring  her  own  vision;  the  rise  and  fall  of 
her  bosom  as  she  gasps  to  speak,  but  cannot;  her  hands 
that  hang  so  helpless  till  some  slight  convulsion  shows 
her  distress  through  their  inaction — that  all  these  are 
unseen  by  him,  who  really  sees  them  plainly,  with  pity 
in  his  heart,  but  a  mazed  understanding,  so  far. 

For  a  moment  all  remains  unchanged.  It  is  a  moment 
of  acute  silence  for  both,  through  which  is  audible  the 
heavy   stertorous    breathing   of   the   man   on   the   floor. 


178  'AN  AFFAIE  OF  BISHONOK 

Lucinda  is  the  one  to  break  it.  She  cannot  reason  now 
of  what  is  best  to  say.  He  may  know  nothing  yet;  but 
she  knows  he  has  to  know  all  soon,  and  why  not  now? 
One  way  of  knowledge  is  like  another,  and  his  comes  to 
him  with  the  name  of  his  boyhood,  spoken  through  a 
torrent  of  pleading  for  forgiveness,  a  passionate  cry  of 
remorse  from  a  soul  in  torture.  Oh,  how  could  he  have 
been  so  deaf  as  not  to  know  that  voice? — so  dull  as  to 
be  none  the  wiser  for  his  own  glint  of  insight  into  its 
likeness  to  his  sister's,  more  than  once  ere  this? 

Then  Mrs.  Hatsell,  coming  stealthily  to  replace  a  wax 
eandle  near  its  end  in  the  window-draught,  sees  Lady 
Haydon  fall  into  the  arms  of  her  guest,  and  hears  her 
agonized  cry:  "Vincent — ^Vincent — ^you  mnst  forgive 
me ! — ^you  shall  forgive  me ! ''  She  sees  the  kiss  of  his 
forgiveness — for  what  offence  she  knows  not — and  the 
welcome  of  his  arms,  and  gets  away  unnoticed,  with  a 
tale  to  tell  her  daughter. 

Had  Vincent's  recognition  of  his  sister  come  at  some 
happier  moment,  might  he  not  have  withheld  the  for- 
giveness so  ungrudgingly  given?  Had  his  first  percep- 
tion that  this  Lady  Ray  don,  the  teller  of  a  false  tale  of 
her  own  parentage,  was  in  truth  his  own  little  Mayjune 
he  was  longing  to  greet — had  this  come  upon  him  as  a 
revelation  of  her  lawless  disregard  of  all  moral  duty,  her 
indulgence  of  a  sinful  passion  fraught  with  a  thousand 
dishonors  to  a  family  so  little  blemished  as  their  own, 
it  may  easily  be  that  her  confession  and  plea  for  pardon 
would  have  been  met  by  a  storm  of  angry  reproach. 
Had  he  seen  her  first  as  one  of  a  gay  throng  of  rakes 
who  had  thrown  all  sacred  obligation,  all  purity  of  love, 
to  the  four  winds  of  Heaven — and  coteries  of  such-like 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R  179 

folk  were  no  harder  to  find  in  those  days  than  in  our  own 
— the  first  word  from  his  lips  to  the  sister  the  memory  of 
whose  childhood  he  had  treasured  in  all  his  wanderings 
might  easily  have  been  some  brutal  epithet  containing  a 
falsehood,  such  as  a  society  of  liars  and  hypocrites  bestows 
so  freely  on  the  woman  who  transgresses  laws  womankind 
have  had  no  share  in  making,  with  only  a  lenient  word 
of  formal  blame  for  the  male  transgressor,  of  whom  she 
may  have  been  the  half-unwilling  victim.  But  Lucinda's 
cry  of  contrition,  her  appeal  for  lenient  judgment,  came 
to  him  in  no  such  guise.  It  was  mixed  with  her  despair 
for  the  dire  calamity  he  now  saw  for  the  first  time,  for  a 
lover  stricken  down  with  one  of  the  cruellest  afflictions 
man  has  to  bear  at  the  hands  of  God;  and  all  his  pious 
instincts  towards  reproof  of  sin  were,  so  to  speak,  caught 
at  a  disadvan,tage,  and  overcome  for  the  moment  by  his 
sorrow  for  the  pitiful  plight  of  this  his  dearly  loved  sister 
and  friend. 

So  soon  as  his  utter  bewilderment  would  allow  him  to 
understand  it,  Lucinda  told  her  tale — one  in  which  her 
own  almost  childish  ignorance  of  the  nature  of  the  step 
she  was  taking  played  even  a  larger  part  than  is  common 
in  such  stories,  though,  like  enough,  the  girl  had  not  been 
kept  more  in  the  dark  than  the  world,  for  its  own  pur- 
poses, has  decided  to  be  wisest  for  all  girls.  But  so  skil- 
fully did  she  gloss  over  the  wicked  cunning  Sir  Oliver 
had  practised  in  entangling  her,  so  much  self-blame  did 
she  impute,  so  persistently  did  she  dwell  on  the  reci- 
procity throughout  of  an  ill-restrained  passion — guilty, 
perhaps,  but  of  like  guilt  for  both,  and  irresistible  by 
either — that  her  brother  could  not  gpe^k  his  hatred  of 
her  seducer  without  seeming  to  include  her  in  the  scope 
of  his  condemnation.    For  all  throu^  the  telling  of  her 


180  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

story  he  was  burning  to  say :  "  Right  or  wrong,  I  am  on 
my  little  sister's  side.  If  Law  and  Custom  be  against 
her,  I  appeal  to  God.  If  God  be  against  her,  I  cast  my 
lot  in  with  hers,  and  take  part,  if  need  be,  with  the 
Devil." 

It  is  true  that  no  memory  of  past  lapses  of  his  own 
had  any  share  in  this  impulse;  it  was  entirely  due  to 
his  devotion  to  his  sister.    But,  then,  he  was  a  Man. 

What  should  he  say  to  that  thing  on  the  floor  that  he 
at  last  knew  for  a  villain,  his  sister's  betrayer  ?  Nothing, 
here  and  now.  How  could  he  speak  to  the  slow-returning 
consciousness  of  one  half-witted  from  the  overwhelming 
paroxysms  of  epilepsy?  How  hope  for  a  sane  answer 
from  his  thickened  speech  and  clouded  thought?  ^ot 
yet — ^wait  a  while !  ]^ot  even  when  Oliver,  denying,  as 
before,  that  time  had  lapsed,  and  refusing,  as  before,  all 
help  but  John  Rackham's,  had  been  got  safely  to  bed 
had  Vincent  a  word  to  say  to  him  of  his  villainy.  His 
few  words  of  formal  farewell,  and  wishes  for  a  night  of 
sound  sleep  for  his  host,  had  no  colour  in  them  of  a 
gravity  not  warranted  by  the  tragic  interruption  to  a 
peaceful  evening.  I^or  on  any  of  the  few  days  left  of 
his  stay  at  Kips  Manor — for  on  the  second  day  after  this 
he  was  fit  to  mount  a  horse,  and  only  delayed  a  day  or 
two  longer  for  prudence — did  he  utter  one  syllable  to 
Oliver  of  the  matter  nearest  his  heart.  And  the  sad- 
ness that  ruled  the  house  was  nowise  strange,  considering 
the  evil  hap  of  its  master,  and  its  persistency  of  oppressive 
effect  on  him. 

But  when  the  day  came  for  him  to  ride  away  to  his 
father's  home,  strong  in  hope  that  ere  long  he  would  ride 
back,  bearing  at  least  some  message  from  that  father  to 
his  daughter,  if  not  the  full  forgiveness  such  an  offence 


AX  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:^rOR  181 

could  scarcely  find  a  plea  for — then  at  last  Vincent  spoke. 
He  had  started  on  his  journey,  as  men  rode  on  such 
journeys  in  those  days,  with  spurs  to  his  jack-boots  he 
might  need  to  use,  for  speed  of  flight  or  pursuit;  with 
pistols  loaded  ready  at  his  saddle-bow,  and  a  sword  of 
tried  service — all  the  loan  of  his  host,  as  was  all  else  he 
carried  with  him,  and  the  horse  he  sat  upon.  Beside 
him  rode  Oliver,  quite  himself  again  after  that  queer  fit, 
a  week  since,  to  conduct  his  guest  as  far  as  the  main 
road  upon  his  way,  after  which  no  guide  would  be 
necessary,  all  the  stages  of  his  route  being  well  marked 
and  easy  of  inquiry,  besides  a  good  chance  of  other  com- 
pany. According  as  this  may  turn  out,  John  Rackham, 
who  rides  behind,  will  accompany  him  farther  or  return. 
There  was  no  mount  for  Lucinda,  the  young  colt  still 
proving  too  troublesome  for  a  lady's  hand,  and  her  o\vn 
mare  being  needed  for  Vincent,  caution  being  still  de- 
sirable, his  hurt  being  so  recent. 

^^  Listen,  before  we  part.  Sir  Oliver  Raydon,"  says  he. 
"  You  have  been  a  good  host  to  me,  and  I  am  your 
debtor  for  a  many  courtesies.  But  you  are  a  damned 
villain,  and  shall  one  day  answer  for  your  crime  against 
me  and  mine.  For  I  know  the  whole  story,  and,  though 
my  sister's  love  is  yours,  I  know  you  for  what  you  are. 
Do  you  call  upon  me  to  make  good  my  words?  If  so, 
here  and  now  .  .  ."  And  he  would  have  dismounted, 
but  Sir  Oliver  stopped  him. 

"  Keep  your  saddle,  Mr.  Mauleverer.  I  should  gain 
little  honour  by  crossing  swords  with  a  lame  man,  even 
though  I  myself  be  none  of  the  fittest  for  a  bout  after 
this  accursed  attack.  But  do  not  fear.  A  time  will 
come,  suitably  for  both,  unless,  indeed,  you  are  minded 
to  go  back  on  a  hot  word  spoken  in  anger.    I  will  overlook 


182  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOl!^OR 

it,  for  my  part,  and  so  farewell,  and  a  pleasant  ride  home, 
and  a  good  welcome!  "    It  cost  an  effort  to  get  this  said. 

"  Never  a  word  will  I  unsay,"  said  Vincent ;  and  he 
saw  that  the  other  flinched,  but  had  no  guess  why. 
"  But  look  you,  now ! — here  is  a  bargain.  I  have  no 
wish  to  run  my  sword  through  a  man  my  sister  is  so 
besotted  about.  I  would  rather  call  him  brother.  But 
a  day  may  come  when  she  too  may  measure  you  right, 
and  her  craze  be  at  an  end.  Count  our  meeting  post- 
poned till  that  day.  I  have  this  much  faith  in  you.  Sir 
Oliver  Ray  don — that  I  do  not  believe  you  will  dishonor 
a  pledge  from  cowardice.  Promise  me  but  this,  that  my 
challenge  shall  stand  until  Lucy  tires  of  you,  and  till 
then — soon  may  it  be ! — I  will  not  claim  it." 

"  Agreed !  "  said  Sir  Oliver.  But  then  he  thought  to 
himself,  ^^  How  about  his  father's  death,  when  he  comes 
to  know  it  ?  "  So,  after  hesitating  a  moment,  he  added : 
"  Let  us  have  the  compact  clear,  with  a  witness,  though 
he  be  but  a  groom."  He  signed  to  John  Rackham,  who 
came ;  then  continued :  "  It  is  to  be  thus,  I  take  it, 
Mr.  Mauleverer:  no  challenge  shall  hold  good  against 
me  until  my  lady  wearies  of  me,  and  would  be  quit  of  my 
service.    Thus  and  no  otherwise — is  that  it  ?  " 

"  Thus  and  no  otherwise !  "  echoes  Vincent.  But  then, 
having  misinterpreted  Oliver's  pause,  he  adds  this  sub- 
intent  :  ^^  The  pledge  is  mine  only ;  my  father  is  not  held 
by  it.  I  have  no  right  to  bind  him."  He  had  wondered, 
when  Lucinda  told  her  tale,  that  no  word  came  in  of  a 
challenge  from  the  old  swordsman,  her  father. 

"  I  understand  it  so,  and  am  content."  So  says  Sir 
Oliver.  But  his  eye  meets  not  Vincent's,  as  he  turns  to 
ride  away,  and  neither  says  farewell.  There  is  a  malicious 
grin  on  the  groom's  colourless  lips  as  he  turns  his  horse 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  183 

to  follow  his  master,  with  the  barest  sign  of  obeisance  to 
the  departing  guest. 

As  for  Vincent,  how  can  his  heart  be  aught  but  a  heavy 
one  when  he  thinks  back  on  the  home  he  hoped  to  find, 
and  contrasts  it  with  the  one  he  now  expects.  Alas! — 
he  does  not  know  the  worst.  He  rides  on  over  the  green 
roadside  turf,  with  a  wheel-track  of  no  great  width  in 
the  centre,  and  the  hedges  sometimes  flanking  it  close, 
then  opening  wide,  as  was  the  way  in  those  days  even 
with  the  highways  of  some  importance.  He  rides  on, 
stooping  now  and  again  when  a  tree-bough,  dropping  too 
low,  threatens  his  head,  and  indulging  the  thought  of  the 
welcome  the  Old  Hall  may  still  give  him — of  his  father's 
face  with  the  burden  on  it  of  a  grief  to  tell — a  tale  already 
told.  But  why — ^why — ^had  no  answer  come  to  Lucinda's 
letters  ?  Ay ! — even  to  his  own ;  though  shortness  of  time 
may  have  had  to  answer  for  that. 

He  who  writes  this — ^partly  with  a  free  pen  and  partly 
as  an  abstract  of  a  record  of  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago,  too  full  of  the  author's  reflections  to  warrant  the 
cost  of  reprinting  at  length — is  not  well  enough  informed 
about  maladies  of  the  eyesight  to  know  whether  so 
sudden  a  revival  of  vision  as  Vincent  Mauleverer's  is  a 
common  case.  All  he  can  vouch  for  is  that  it  stands  so 
in  the  narrative,  and  that  he  has  inclined  in  this  portion 
to  leave  its  language  unchanged,  rather  than  to  modify  it 
with  a  view  to  softening  seeming  improbability.  As  it 
was  written,  so  it  is  reported,  and  the  responsibility  for 
its  truth  or  falsehood  must  rest  with  its  first  writer. 


CHAPTEE  XII 

Never  had  Oliver  been  more  silent  and  morose  than  in 
the  days  following  the  departure  of  Vincent.  He  was 
brooding  over  what  he  now  thought  his  own  folly,  in  not 
at  once  catching  at  a  challenge  that  might  have  had  a 
fortunate  outcome  for  him.  Another  thrust,  like  that 
hasty  one  he  repented  of  daily,  would  have  sent  the  son 
to  follow  the  father,  and  relieved  him — ^not  from  the 
burden  of  guilt — but  from  the  apprehension  of  a  prema- 
ture revelation;  one  that  would  turn  Lucinda  against  him 
before  the  natural  flagging  of  his  own  passion  had  made 
him  ripe  for  some  new  adventure  elsewhere. 

What  has  he  gained  by  his  postponement  of  a  duel 
that  must  needs  be  fought  when  Vincent  learns  the 
truth?  His  mind  flinched  from  an  image  it  conjured 
up  of  an  opponent  no  longer  balked  by  a  crippled  limb, 
swift  of  hand  and  keen  of  sight,  with  two  great  wrongs 
to  avenge — a  sister's  dishonor  and  a  father's  murder. 
And  he  himself  with  nothing  then  to  fight  for!  For  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  Lucinda's  strange  love  for  him 
would  then  be  changed  to  loathing.  What  a  miserable 
fool's  pledge  he  had  given — to  play  a  game  of  life  or 
death  with  his  chief  stake  swept  off  the  board !  Better — 
far  better! — they  should  have  cleared  the  score,  then  and 
there,  on  the  hill  yonder. 

The  best  might-have-been  his  thoughts  could  frame 
was  one  of  himself,  borne  back  after  such  an  encounter 
with  an  expiatory  wound  on  him — ^bad  enough  for  the 

184 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE  185 

purpose,  but  not  too  bad — and  then  a  full  confession  of 
the  whole  to  this  mistress  he  was  more  than  half  in  love 
with  by  now,  in  spite  of  his  normal  incapacity  for  love. 
For  his  imagination  did  not  scruple  to  trade  on  the  pity 
Lucinda  had  store  of  in  her  heart,  and  to  utilise  it  for 
the  easing  of  an  embarrassment.  It  would  work  all  right, 
that  way,  and  be  of  service  to  him.  This  blasphemy 
against  the  Holy  Spirit  of  Love  was  constant  with  him. 
And  repellent  as  was  the  frame  of  mind  that  made  it 
possible,  it  contained  also  the  germ  of  the  only  possi- 
bility of  life  and  growth  to  his  self-centred  soul ;  the  heart- 
stretch  he  had  to  acknowledge  the  existence  of  towards 
a  woman  who  was  to  have  been  but  an  item  of  his  passing 
pleasures.  Lucinda's  beauty,  her  overpowering  grace  and 
sweetness,  had  stolen  a  march  on  him;  and  he  bade  fair 
to  become  a  prisoner  in  the  citadel  himself  had  captured. 
Else  he  might  have  shaken  himself  as  free  of  her  as  ho 
was  of  that  discarded  Susan,  who  was  losing  her  beauty 
now,  and  knew  it. 

Then  an  indignant  impatience  with  the  creator  of 
human  maladies,  whom  he  could  not  reach,  found  some 
easement  in  denunciations  of  the  Faculty  of  Medicine, 
which  was  relatively  near  at  hand,  for  its  ignorance  of 
the  nature  and  treatment  of  disease.  But  then  a  thought 
occurred  to  him: — Was  this  affliction  of  his  an  ordinary 
disease — fair  play  on  Nature's  part — or  had  the  Devil  a 
hand  in  the  matter?  Was  he  bewitched?  Such  things 
had  been.  But  a  few  years  since  the  smell  of  burning 
witches  was  over  the  whole  land,  and  these  eastern  shires 
had  been  tainted  with  the  contagion  almost  beyond  all 
others. 

Who  would  the  offender  be  in  this  case?  Well-^he 
had  not  far  to  seek  for  that.     All  the  countryside  knew 


186  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:^rOR 

how  narrowly  Mistress  Trant  had  escaped  being  swum 
for  a  witch  three  years  ago;  and,  though  Sir  Oliver  him- 
self had  been  mainly  instrumental  in  rescuing  her  from 
the  clutches  of  Matthew  Hopkins,  the  great  witch-finder, 
he  was  never  convinced  that  the  accusations  against  her 
were  false.  He  recalled  the  confessions  this  woman  had 
made — to  avoid  torture,  certainly — and  among  other 
things  that  a  chief  accusation  against  her  was  that  of 
afflicting  a  neighbour's  children  with  fits.  His  own  case — 
that  was  strange ! 

If  it  were  so,  no  need  to  fancy — as  he  half -confessed  to 
himself  he  had  done — ^that  his  witnessing  from  afar  that 
encounter  on  the  ship's  deck  had  made  him  hesitate  to 
cross  Bwords  with  the  surviving  combatant.  What  folly! 
Be  sure  it  was  that  accursed  malady  that  had  eaten  into 
his  system,  and  made  him  half  the  man  ke  was  three 
months  ago!  That  was  it!  It  was  witchcraft.  It  was 
some  devil's  practice  of  that  green-eyed  snake  of  a  woman. 
What  was  a  woman's  jealousy  not  capable  of?  And 
what  a  return  for  all  he  had  done  for  her!  Would  she 
ever  have  been  an  honest  woman  at  all,  but  for  him? 

Sir  Oliver  jumped  at  this  witchcraft  theory,  having  lit- 
tle relish  for  suspicion  of  his  own  cowardice.  He  was  not 
long  in  making  up  his  mind  that  his  discarded  mistress 
was  the  culprit,  and  that  it  was  some  accursed  witch- 
philtre  of  hers  that  was  answerable  for  this  falling  sick- 
ness. She  had  motive  enough.  It  must  be  plain  now 
to  her  woman's  quick  apprehension  that  all  those  little 
aftermaths  of  a  lawless  love,  nominally  secret  from  her 
official  possessor,  would  have  to  come  to  an  end.  She 
would  not  need  to  believe  in  the  decay  of  her  own  charms 
for  that ;  what  woman  is  convinced  of  that  at  forty  ?  But 
what  a  hatred  must  hers  be  for  Lucinda ! 


Aj^  APFAIE  of  DISHOXOE  187 

Then  a  thought  stopped  him  short  When  his  first 
seizure  occurred,  what  did  this  Susan  know  of  Lucinda? 
Simply  nothing!  But  had  that  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter?  In  this  subject  of  witchcraft  all  reasoning  was 
at  fault.  We  knew  nothing  of  the  conditions.  How 
could  he  tell  that  some  imp,  some  familiar,  had  not  car- 
ried the  news  of  all  his  doings,  or  even  that  the  witch  her- 
self had  not  travelled  invisible?  Tales  enough  were 
abroad  of  like  things  happening.  Eather,  was  it  not  more 
reasonable  to  assume  Susan's  supernatural  knowledge  of 
things  at  a  distance,  and  account  for  it  by  her  being  in 
league  with  the  Devil?  Fancy  accepting  a  plea  of  an 
alibi  from  a  witch! 

But  if  Oliver,  dwelling  on  this  way  of  accounting  for 
his  malady,  as  well  as  on  the  growing  difficulty  of  keeping 
his  mistress  in  ignorance  of  her  father's  death,  became 
more  and  more  silent  and  distraught,  it  was  another  story 
with  Lucinda.  All  the  heart  of  her  youth  was  back  in 
her  veins,  now  she  knew  that  she  must  ere  long  be  once 
more  in  touch  with  her  father.  Fancy  seeing  him  again ! 
Fancy  feeling  his  arms  about  her  as  of  old,  and  hearing 
his  dear  voice,  even  though  it  spoke  plainly  to  her  of  her 
own  misdeed,  and  stooped  to  no  false  palliation  of  it  for 
her  sake.  And  then,  too,  what  a  joy  to  have  her  brother, 
as  it  were,  on  her  side — to  be  spared  the  first  confession 
of  her  sin  to  her  father,  face  to  face!  That  would  have 
been  terrible.  She  looked  to  it  now  as  a  certainty  that 
his  letter  would  come  soon — this  dreadful  silence  would 
end.  Kot  that  his  reproaches  would  not  sting.  That  was 
inevitable.  But  anything — anything,  rather  than  this 
condemnation  without  speech,  this  dumb  and  stupid 
void  of  cold  speculation! 

"Oh,  Heaven,    speed   my   brother   on   his   mission!" 


188  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0E 

That  was  her  hourly  thought.  And  she  made  up  a 
thousand  ways  in  her  mind  how  Vincent  would  arrive 
at  the  Old  Hall,  and  how  he  would  be  welcomed.  'Now, 
it  was  under  the  canopy  of  a  starlit  night,  like  that  above 
the  still  sea  yonder;  and  she  could  almost  hear  the 
tramp  of  his  steed  on  the  stones  of  the  court  of  the  Old 
Hall — could  almost  hear  his  joyous  voice  shouting  aloud 
to  his  father  to  come,  to  wake  and  come,  and  see  how 
the  boy  of  eight  years  since  had  become  a  man.  And 
then  she  would  dream,  when  the  morning  sun  was 
making  so  much  gold  of  the  lichens  and  stonecrop  on  the 
grey  Manor  House,  that,  even  at  the  moment,  father  and 
son  had  met,  maybe  in  the  rose-garden  that  was  called 
her  own,  maybe  in  the  lane — anywhere!  Oh,  the  morn- 
ing air  of  the  Old  Hall  gardens,  scent-laden  with  southern- 
wood and  lavender,  thyme  and  mignonette,  so  unlike  this 
sweet,  salt  desert  by  the  sea! 

But  whatever  form  her  dream  took,  it  was  always 
crossed  by  the  pain  in  her  father's  voice,  uttering  her 
name  as  the  first  thing  to  speak  of;  yet  again  alleviated 
by  the  sound  of  her  brother's,  that — so  she  would  have 
it — ^was  to  say  boldly :  ^'  I  have  seen  my  sister,  I  have 
been  beneath  her  roof;  and  if  all  is  not  well,  all  is  not  so 
ill  but  that  I  can  take  her  part  against  the  world,  and 
feel  no  shame  in  doing  so."  So  she  dreamed  on,  and  the 
days  went  by;  it  was  a  little  lull  of  rest  with  a  privilege 
of  hope  in  it,  a  right  that  was  hers  through  all  the  time 
in  which  no  letter  from  her  brother  could  possibly  reach 
her.  She  made  the  most  of  it,  and  hid  in  the  very  back 
of  her  heart  a  misgiving  that  she  might  soon  be  at  a  loss 
to  invent  reasons  for  this  letter's  non-arrival. 

How  vexatious  it  was  of  Oliver  that  he  should,  just 
now  of  all  times,  begin  to  scheme  a  journey  to  London! 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  189 

He  had  not  hinted  before  of  any  departure  from  Kips. 
Manor,  either  for  their  previous  home  or  for  London, 
until  mid-August  at  least.  If  she  were  dragged  away 
on  any  pretext  before  Vincent  had  time  to  write — and 
she  could  imagine  reasons  why  he  might  not  write  at 
once — ^how  long  would  it  be  before  his  letter,  forwarded, 
would  reach  her?     It  might  never  do  so. 

She  tried  to  coax  Oliver  to  promise  postponement  of 
their  departure  until  letters  from  the  Old  Hall  should 
arrive;  but  he  always  evaded  the  subject,  pooh-poohing 
her  anxiety,  and  saying  another  day,  or  two  at  most, 
would  be  sure  to  put  an  end  to  it.  He  showed  impatience 
when  she  referred  to  it  again;  whereupon  she,  bearing  in 
mind  his  recent  attack  and  Dr.  Phinehas's  warning  that 
he  was  not  to  be  thwarted,  determined  not  to  speak  of  it 
again;  to  Oliver  himself,  at  any  rate. 

But  she  could  not  even  feel  sure  no  time  would  be  lost 
in  the  forwarding  of  this  letter  when  it  came.  In  fact, 
she  had  serious  misgivings  that  it  might  lie  unclaimed  at 
the  Cobbler  with  Two  Wives  when  John  Rackham  was 
no  longer  at  hand  to  ride  over  there,  as  he  now  did  regu- 
larly twice  in  the  week.  Sir  Oliver  was  not  communi- 
cative about  the  arrangements  that  would  be  made  for 
forwarding  letters  in  his  absence.  All  she  knew,  so  far, 
was  that  after  their  departure  Susan  Trant  would  return 
to  her  husband  at  his  farm,  and  Martha  Hatsell  would 
remain  in  charge  of  the  house  as  heretofore.  But  Trant's 
Farm  was  only  an  easy  distance  from  the  Cobbler  with 
Two  Wives,  and  at  this  time  Lucinda  had  no  doubt  of 
Mrs.  Trant's  good  faith  and  trustworthiness,  whatever 
may  have  been  the  case  later. 

"  Now  listen  to  me.  Mistress  Susan,''  said  she,  to  her 
attendant  a  few  days  after  her  brother's  departure.    "  Sir 


190  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE 

Oliver  has  set  his  heart  on  a  visit  to  London,  and  that 
in  spite  of  the  tales  they  tell  of  the  plague  that  has  fallen 
on  the  people  there.  He  is  headstrong,  and  cannot  be 
dissuaded." 

"  He  was  so  from  a  boy,"  said  Susan.  "  What  is  your 
ladyship^s  wish  ?  " 

^'  'Tis  a  small  matter,  but  must  be  done  without  fail. 
There  will  come  letters  for  me  when  we  are  gone,  there 
where  John  Rackham  rides  now  to  fetch  them.  You  live 
near  by  ? — is  it  not  so "?  " 

"  The  Cobbler  Inn  ?  Yes — one  can  go  on  foot,  within 
the  half-hour.     Mr.  Isaac  Trusslove." 

"  That  is  his  name,  who  has  charge  over  the  letters  ? 
.  .  .  Well! — he  will  give  you  mine;  for,  as  I  suppose, 
he  knows  you.  Write  on  them  the  new  address — *  Mrs. 
Jane  Worbidge.'  "... 

"I  cannot  write." 

"  l^ever  mind,  Mr.  Trusslove  will  write  it,  if  you  tell 
him.  ISTow  keep  it  well  in  memory.  ^  Care  of  Mrs.  Jane 
Worbidge,  over  the  barber's  shop  in  Panyer  Alley,  by  Ivy 
Lane.'  "  And  she  made  Mrs.  Trant  repeat  this  once  or 
twice,  so  there  should  be  no  mistake.  Why  she  did  not 
write  it  down  for  her  was  in  order  that  no  question  should 
be  made  about  it  over  the  borrowing  of  a  pen  from  Sir 
Oliver;  she  herself  having  none,  but  always  seeking  his. 
And  Lucinda  knew  well  that  folk  who  cannot  write  have 
a  keener  use  of  memory  than  such  as  can  jot  down  -at  will 
every  trifle,  to  keep  it  in  mind. 

Now,  the  name  Lucinda  had  given — that  of  an  old 
nurse  whom  she  was  sure  to  seek  out  if  she  did  go  to  Lon- 
don— was  only  chosen  because  she  had  no  knowledge  of 
where  Sir  Oliver  would  lodge,  he  having  said  nothing 
■of  his  arrangements  so  far.     She  had  no  mistrust  of  her 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOA^OR  191 

own  letters  being  forwarded  with  his,  if  there  were  any ; 
but  as  he  expected  none  he  would  very  likely  not  give  his 
London  address  to  the  local  postmaster  at  all,  relying  on 
his  despatching  them  to  the  Old  Hall,  whence  they 
would  be  sent  to  him  with  any  others.  Lucinda's  sole 
object  was  to  gain  every  moment  of  time  possible;  not 
to  be  without  her  brother's  letter,  or  her  father's,  one 
single  instant  beyond  necessity.  In  her  nervous  anxiety 
for  this,  she  quite  lost  sight  of  a  possible  interpretation  of 
her  wish  to  have  her  letters  sent  to  an  address  apart, 

"  Now,  you  will  be  sure  not  to  let  it  slip,"  said  she,  and 
began  repeating  again,  "  Mrs.  Jane  Worbidge,  in  Panyer 
Alley,  over  the  barber's  shop  ..."  But  Mrs.  Trant 
said,  somewhat  severely,  "  I  heard  it,  my  lady,"  and  was 
silent. 

This  woman's  reserve  would  relax  with  her  mother,  and 
they  would  be  heard  talking  freely  when  the  door  was 
closed,  the  old  woman's  shrill  treble  often  cut  short  by  the 
firm  dry  speech  of  her  daughter,  whose  voice  was  not  un- 
musical, however  incisive.  So  Lucinda  heard  them  talk- 
ing afar,  disputatipusly,  as  she  passed  through  the 
vestibule,  to  join  Oliver  without,  after  giving  her  charge 
to  Susan  Trant. 

For  the  daughter  had  said  to  her  mother,  returning  to 
the  kitchen :  "  Thou  art  astray  touching  the  sailor-guest 
and  my  lady.  They  would  be  a  strange-fangled  sister 
and  brother  to  kiss  o'  that  fashion."  And  then,  though 
her  mother  spoke  not,  only  looked,  "  Of  what  fashion, 
forsooth? — ^why,  the  one  thou  tellest  of!  .  .  .  No! — 
I  care  nothing  what  they  called  each  other.  Names  be  no 
better  than  toys  to  play  with.  You're  all  in  the  wrong 
of  it,  mother.  Brother  and  sister — a  likely  story!  "  But 
she  said  this  only  to  make  her  mother  tell  again  what  she 


192  A^  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

had  seen  and  heard  of  Vincent's  recognition  of  his  sister ; 
having  believed  up  till  now,  from  John  Rackham's  in- 
formation about  Lucinda's  maiden  name — which,  how- 
ever, she  had  kept  to  herself — that  the  inferences  drawn 
about  their  relationship  were  correct.  This  separate 
address  of  Lucinda's  threw  a  doubt  upon  them,  in  a  mind 
prone  to  suspicion,  and  set  it  a  thinking  whether  a  useful 
jealousy  might  not  be  excited  in  Sir  Oliver  by  a  judicious 
revelation  of  the  postal  instruction  Lucinda  had  given. 
But  she  had  to  be  sure  of  her  ground. 

"  You  may  forsooth  me,  daughter,  and  make  light  of  all 
I  say.  But  I  tell  thee  this — all  brothers  are  not  like 
thine,  who  would  as  soon  have  given  thee  a  clout  as  a  kiss, 
and  all  sisters  are  not  lik6  thee,  to  count  a  brother's  kiss 
a  dose  of  medicine."  Thus  the  old  woman.  Who,  then, 
being  pressed,  resumed  the  tale  she  had  already  told,  and 
added  other  recollections  of  conversation  overheard  be- 
tween Lucinda  and  Sir  Oliver,  all  tending  to  show  that 
her  lady  and  Mr.  Mauleverer,  who  came  off  the  wreck, 
were  truly  sister  and  brother,  whatever  Mrs.  Trant's  early 
experience  of  fraternal  relations  may  have  been. 

All  which  her  daughter  listened  to  and  passed  by, 
saying,  with  an  ugly  curl  of  her  top  lip :  ^^  Then  our  Sir 
Oliver  goes  to  a  lodgment  in  London  over  a  barber's  shop ! 
A  likely  story ! "  .  .  .  Then  for  explanation,  being 
asked,  she  gave  the  tale  of  the  new  direction,  and  ended 
with  the  question :  "  What  entertainment  may  there  be 
for  breeding  of  high  quality  in  Panyer  Alley,  over  a  bar- 
ber's shop  ?  Thou  knowest  town,  mother,  as  I  do  not,  that 
have  never  set  foot  there.  What  sort  of  an  alley  is  Panyer 
Alley,  that  Sir  Oliver  Raydon  of  Croxley  Hall  should 
dwell  there,  over  a  barber's  shop  ?  But  of  a  truth,  I  know 
nothing."     Neither  did  her  mother  seem  wiser  than  she, 


AlSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  193 

as  to  Panyer  Alley,  never  having  heard  of  it.  But  her 
ignorance  of  it  told  against  Panyer  Alley,  for  had  she  not 
in  youth  been  in  the  service  of  quality  in  London,  and 
known  all  the  quarters  where  the  gentry  congregated  in 
those  days — St.  James's  and  Piccadilly,  and  eastward 
along  the  Strand — but  had  never  heard  speak  of  such  a 
place  as  fit  residence  for  gentlefolk.  However,  it  might 
be  in  the  City  itself,  eastward  of  Temple  Bar.  But  as 
to  why  my  lady  should  w^ant  her  letters  sent  there  if  it 
were  not  Sir  Oliver's  own  proper  address,  there  could  be 
but  one  reason.  And  this  was  certain,  that  Mrs.  Hatsell 
had  overheard  her  to  say  to  this  brother  or  what  not, 
just  before  his  departure,  that  she  should  be  miserable 
until  his  letter  came,  charging  him  to  write  quickly. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  Mrs.  Trant,  whatever  her  actual 
belief  was,  saw  a  way  to  utilising  the  worst  construction 
she  could  put  on  the  unsuspicious  freedom  of  Lucinda's 
intercourse  with  her  guest,  and  rejoiced  over  it  in  her 
heart.  But  she  wished  to  know  all  she  could  know  first; 
to  be  complete  mistress  of  the  position.  The  groom  Rack- 
ham  was  the  only  person  who  could  have  anything  to 
tell,  and  Susan's  attempt  upon  his  confidence  had  only 
scored  a  few  small  successes.  Ale,  to  which  she  had 
looked  to  loosen  his  tongue  and  make  him  less  reticent, 
had  only  made  him  more  and  more  so ;  until,  at  the  point 
where  most  men  would  be  helplessly  drunk,  Mr.  Rackham 
stopped,  as  a  clock  stops.  But  the  face  of  a  stopped  clock 
is  an  expressive  thing  compared  to  Mr.  Rackham's  when 
drunk ;  for  at  least  it  repeats  its  last  statement  for  what  it 
was  worth;  and  once  accurately,  if  it  was  beforehand  at 
the  moment  of  stopping.  His  was  an  irritating  silence 
always  seeming  to  refer  to  the  thing  you  wanted  to  know, 
whatever  it  might  be. 


194  a:n-  affaie  of  dishonoe 

But  Mrs.  Trant  outmatched  him  in  the  end,  as  we  shall 
see,  by  what  agency  it  is  not  for  the  story  to  determine. 
Yet  it  is  only  reasonable  to  suppose  that  if  the  evil  deeds 
that  none  can  doubt  are  committed  by  persons  accused 
of  witchcraft,  even  in  these  days,  are  due  to  the  inter- 
vention of  the  Evil  One,  this  practice  of  Mrs.  Trant  on  the 
groom,  John  Rackham,  was  one  of  a  like  colour.  We 
may  refuse  belief  to  many  such  legends  as  abound  in  the 
confessions  of  culprits  tried  for  witchcraft,  such  as  those 
of  familiar  spirits — Pyewacket  or  Grizzel  Greedigut — 
braget  cats  or  little  bloodsucking  black  men,  incubi  or 
succubi  or  the  like.  But  it  is  almost  as  hard  to  believe  that 
an  influence  over  an  obdurate  man,  forcing  him  to  the 
narrative  of  secret  matter  wholly  against  his  well,  should 
be  attained  by  means  so  simple  as  those  she  employed, 
except  those  means  were  in  some  sense  diabolical.  It 
does  not  need  to  assume  the  intervention  of  the  arch- 
fiend Satan  in  person,  seeing  that  the  agencies  he  employs 
may  be  well  counted  by  millions.  But  it  is  noteworthy 
that  this  Susan  Trant  had  already  been  under  such 
suspicion  of  malpractices  of  this  sort,  that  even  her  former 
paramour.  Sir  Oliver,  while  throwing  his  weight  and  in- 
fluence into  the  scale  against  that  of  the  Witch-finder 
Hopkins,  had  never  entirely  acquitted  her  in  his  own 
heart.  And  now,  being  in  doubt  as  to  the  cause  of  his 
malady,  his  mind  harked  back  to  the  old  tales  against  her 
of  the  children  she  had  afflicted  with  fits,  ulcers,  and  so 
on,  especially  the  former. 

John  Rackham,  it  may  be  supposed,  had  heard  chance 
gossip  about  Mrs.  Trant's  evil  repute,  else  it  would  never 
have  occurred  to  him  to  seek  advice  from  her  about  a 
perplexity  he  found  himself  in.  He,  being  unable  to 
account  for  the  vices  and  wildness  of  the  young  colt  he 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N0II  195- 

had  so  mucli  difficulty  in  breaking-in,  ended  by  deciding 
that  it  was  bewitched.  A  thief  may  be  set  to  catch  a  thief, 
and  a  witch  a  witch.  But  Susan  Trant,  being  consulted, 
told  Mr.  Rackham  he  was  no  better  than  a  born  fool  to 
think  such  a  thing.  Perhaps,  though,  said  she,  he  had 
other  reasons  that  he  had  not  told.  He  was  not  a  person 
to  be  profuse  in  information  until  some  form  of  con- 
tradiction or  hostility  came  into  the  question. 

"  What  will  you  call  fool  for  next,  Mistress  Susan  ? 
Study  your  words  afore  you  speak  'em,  say  I.  Mean  to 
tell  me  when  a  horse  is  stalled  safe  overnight,  and  stream- 
ing with  a  muck  o'  sweat  in  the  morning,  that  the  DeviF& 
at  a  distance  ?     I  say  no !  " 

"  I  say  like  enough.  Why  not  ?  Witch-wives  must 
have  a  busy  time,  to  answer  for  every  little  ailment. 
Some  will  have  it  a  body  can't  sneeze  but  a  witch  is  to  be 
answerable.  Any  old  dame  with  a  cat  will  do — one  as 
soon  as  another." 

"  You're  wise  with  a  wench's  wisdom,  Mistress  Sukey 
— ^your  tongue  gets  ahead  of  your  knowledge.  N'ow,  if 
you  had  but  bided  for  a  word  I'd  have  told  you." 

"  What  would  you  have  told  me  ?  ISTothing  worth  the 
hearing,  I  lay."  She  was  ironing  fine  cambric,  and  talked 
of  things  of  small  account  the  while,  with  slight  interest. 
It  exasperated  Mr.  Rackham,  who  was  no  match  for  her 
on  even  terms. 

"  I'd  have  told  you  this/'  said  he,  moved  to  emphasis, 
short  of  anger,  for  which  he  was  too  torpid.  "  I'd  have 
told  you  that  when  the  mane  of  a  three-year-old  colt,  or 
e'er  a  horse  you  may  name,  is  tied  in  strands  so  no  comb 
passes  through,  do  what  you  will,  that  young  colt's  been 
hag-rid  in  the  night.  You  may  naysay  it,  mistress,  but 
it's  well  known  for  a  truth  by  all  who  have  charge  of 


196  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

horses.  My  father  knew  it  afore  me,  and  no  man  called 
Tin  a  liar,  in  his  day  .  .  .  what  might  you  make  of 
that  ? "  He  had  said  a  good  deal,  for  him ;  and  had  done 
justice  to  his  case  without  posing  as  a  petitioner  for  what 
he  considered  a  professional  opinion. 

Mrs.  Trant  felt  she  could  tantalize  him;  perhaps  that 
might  be  her  best  policy.  "  I  have  heard  tell  of  that,'' 
said  she,  placidly  ironing  a  careful  corner.  There  she 
stopped.  She  was  considering  whether  she  could  not 
utilise  this  fulcrum  of  the  horse-incident  to  extract  the 
information  she  wanted.  A  lever  was  knoAvn  to  her,  could 
she  get  the  chance  to  apply  it.  She  completed  the  corner 
before  she  spoke  again.  ^^  They're  a  strong  and  a  wicked 
sort,"  said  she ;  "  but  they  do  say  there  be  remedies 
against  them,  too !  " 

The  old  groom,  leaning  with  his  elbows  on  the  window- 
ledge  of  the  kitchen,  grinned  maliciously  on  one  side  of 
his  face  and  crimped  the  eye  that  belonged  over  the  grin. 
"  I'd  make  a  sharp  remedy  if  I  could  find  the  old  cat," 
said  he.     *^  But  who's  to  say  where  to  find  un  ?  " 

"  Who — alas  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Trant.  But  then  she  went 
to  the  window  over  against  John  Rackham,  and  as  she 
stood  against  the  inner  side  of  the  thick  wall,  spoke  to 
him  under  her  breath.  ^^  Listen  to  me,  Master  Rack- 
ham.  This  is  no  fable  I  am  telling  you.  If  you  will  be 
guided  by  me,  I  will  put  you  in  the  way  to  know  of  this 
witch  that  has  done  ill  to  your  horse — who  she  may  be, 
and  her  name.  But  you  must  stand  pledged  to  follow 
my  bidding  in  all  things." 

Mr.  Rackham's  usually  immovable  face  showed  symp- 
toms of  alarm.  ''  No  raising  of  the  Devil,  mistress," 
said  he.  "  I  bar  that."  But  she,  facing  him  near  over 
the  window-sill,  makes  a  jest  of  this  pusillanimity  of  his, 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  197 

and  as  though  to  take  him  still  nearer  to  the  bosom  of 
her  confidence,  says,  '^  What ! — do  I  look  as  though  I 
had  to  do  with  the  Devil?  Look  on  my  face  and 
see !  " 

Now  in  all  this,  which  is  dwelt  upon  especially  for  that 
reason,  it  seems  to  us  that  Mrs.  Trant — whatever  she  may 
have  practised  of  other  sorceries  later  on  this  coarse  but 
weak-minded  man — used  no  other  enchantment  but  the 
very  ancient  witchcraft  woman  has  practised  on  man 
since  the  beginning  of  time.  Which  of  us  but  is  wax  in 
the  hands  of  a  woman  who  says,  "  This  way — come !  " 
who  wraps  him  round  with  the  warmth  of  her  voice ;  who 
distinguishes  him  on  her  own  behalf  from  his  neighbour  ? 
We  all  know  this  is  so,  even  sometimes  in  cases  where 
beauty  is  lacking;  and  Susan  was  still  any  eye's  pleasure 
that  rested  on  her,  as  her  mistress  would  often  think,  over 
her  image  in  the  mirror,  when  engaged  about  her  tiring- 
work. 

But  this  preliminary  enthralment  of  Mr.  Rackham's 
susceptibilities,  or  such  as  remained  to  him  at  his  time  of 
life,  was  only  a  means  to  an  end.  Susan,  having,  as  it 
were,  her  fish  on  the  hook,  as  she  made  her  bargain  with 
him  in  undertones  across  the  window-ledge,  promised  to 
show  him  an  image  of  the  witch  who  was  at  the  bottom 
of  his  stable-troubles,  on  certain  conditions.  He  was  to 
undertake  at  midnight  on  Lammas  Day — very  shortly, 
that  is — having  neither  eaten  nor  drunk  since  midday, 
to  come  prepared  to  follow  her  directions  in  all  things  to 
that  same  kitchen,  when  she  would  show  him  that  witch's 
visible  image  in  a  magic  glass  or  crystal.  She  could  not, 
however,  give  him  any  certainty  that  the  name  of  its 
original  should  be  made  known  to  him.  That  might 
depend  on  whether  he  could  himself  identify  her — or  him, 


198  A]^  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

as  might  be;  for  this  mischief  might  be  the  work  of  no 
witch,  but  a  wizard. 

For  the  present  relief  of  the  evil  to  the  yonng  horse  she 
knew  of  but  one  thing  that  was  entirely  infallible  in 
freeing  sufferers  from  the  molestations  of  witchcraft, 
namely,  the  constant  wearing  of  a  sufficient  diamond; 
but  though  this  would  apply  alike  to  horse  and  man,  there 
was  no  diamond  obtainable,  it  being  out  of  the  question 
to  get  at  the  ring  on  her  ladyship's  finger  for  such  a 
purpose,  as  Mr.  Rackham  must  see  of  his  own  judgment. 
But  an  alleviation  of  the  evil  was  possible.  She  would  get 
some  vervain  or  verbena  from  the  garden  at  her  own. 
home,  seeing  she  was  going  there  on  a  visit  to-morrow; 
and  this,  made  into  a  decoction  in  hot  w^ater,  and  sprinkled 
over  the  animal  and  its  stable,  might  render  the  opera- 
tions of  the  witch  more  difficult,  or  defeat  them  altogether. 

It  so  turned  out,  doubtless  by  the  merest  accidental 
coincidence,  that  on  the  day  following  the  employment 
of  this  precious  necromantic  remedy  of  vervain,  the  young 
colt  had  a  fit  of  great  docility ;  so  much  so  that  my  lady 
could  use  him  as  a  mount,  riding  with  Sir  Oliver  across 
country  southward  as  far  as  what  are  called  "  The  Levels,'' 
where  horse  and  rider  may  enjoy  a  gallop  alike.  So 
tractable  was  he  and  obedient  to  the  rein  that  his  rider 
could  promise  herself  ease  in  his  saddle  on  her  journey 
back  to  the  'New  Hall. 

This  docility,  it  may  be  imagined,  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  John  Rackham,  and  convinced  him  that 
Susan  Trant  had  not  been  falsely  accused  of  witchcraft. 
And  the  worse  a  witch  was  Susan,  the  better  pleased  was 
John.  All  his  hope  was  that  hers  was  no  false  boast,  and 
that  she  would  really  be  able  to  put  him  on  the  trail  of 
the  witch  that  had  ridden  his  horse,  and  inflicted  upon 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHO]S^OR  199 

him  all  this  perplexity  and  trouble.  The  evil  influence 
was  baffled  for  the  moment  by  the  vervain,  but  revenge 
would  be  sweet.  Short  of  burning  at  the  stake  there 
were  correctives ;  such,  for  instance,  as  placing  the  culprit 
naked  in  a  sack  with  a  tom-cat,  and  dragging  the  sack 
through  a  pond.  Or,  pricking  over  all,  to  test  whether  the 
devil  had  left  no  spot  insensitive  to  a  fair  thrust  of  a 
cobbler's  needle;  but  that  would  be  done  in  any  case. 

So  it  was  with  an  eager  anticipation,  mixed,  it  may  be, 
with  an  occasional  slight  misgiving,  that  Mr.  Rackham 
presented  himself  on  Lammas  Eve  at  near  midnight  to 
claim  the  performance  of  Mrs.  Trant's  promise.  J^ow, 
remember  always  that  this  woman's  secret  motive  was  to 
get  at  the  root  of  his  knowledge  of  things  half-betrayed 
to  her  suspicious  watchfulness  already,  and  confirmed  by 
her  mother's  chance-hearing  of  Lucinda's  words  or  Sir 
Oliver's  at  times  when  each  conceived  her  deaf  or  in- 
attentive. 

The  room,  used  only  as  a  kitchen  in  these  days,  was,  in 
fact,  the  old  banquet-hall  of  the  spacious  manor-house, 
built  in  the  days  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  and  formerly  used 
for  both  kitchen  and  the  daily  meals  of  the  household. 
Its  furnishing  was  scanty  now  as  against  w^hat  it  had  been 
in  the  days  of  its  prosperity,  when  it  was  on  the  outskirts 
of  a  busy  town  of  cloth-weavers  and  fisherfolk.  But, 
measured  by  the  needs  of  the  present  inmates  and  of  all 
possible  guests — for  Oliver's  use  of  this  house  was  rather 
as  a  place  of  refuge  from  his  surroundings  elsewhere  than 
for  the  entertainment  of  his  friends — it  was  ample  even  to 
luxury.  The  silver  that  gave  back  the  expiring  flicker 
of  the  logs  on  the  great  open  hearth,  ranged  on  the  buffet- 
shelves  it  faced,  outmatched  the  pewter  trenchers  on  the 
shelves  above,  when  Mr.  Rackham,  true  to  his  appoint- 


200  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

ment,  found  Mrs.  Trant  and  her  mother  awaiting 
him. 

Never  were  the  surroundings  of  an  appointed  tryst  less 
like  sorcery!  The  savour  of  ham  or  bacon  simmering 
over  the  fire  in  a  great  iron  pot  was,  in  its  homeliness, 
enough  to  stamp  the  place  innocuous,  and  give  it  absolu- 
tion of  all  sinister  purpose.  Only  the  time  was  out  of 
gear.  For  in  those  days  folk  grudged  candle-light  and 
oil  for  lamps,  sleeping  and  rising  early,  and  leaving  the 
hours  of  darkness  undisturbed  by  work  or  leasing-making, 
unless  it  were  for  occasions  of  great  festivity.  So  that 
a  midnight  appointment,  for  any  honest  purpose,  was  an 
unwonted  occurrence. 

"  What  said  my  lady  to  thee  but  now  ?  "  said  the  mother 
to  the  daughter,  just  before  the  incoming  of  their  visitor. 
To  which  the  answer  was :  "  I  told  her  the  ham  would 
spoil  if  it  kept  not  on  the  fire  for  another  hour,  and  that 
I  would  bear  you  company.  And  on  that  she  said 
*  good-night!  ^  "  And  then  Mr.  Rackham  tapped  on  the 
window,  asking  whether  it  was  not  nigh  midnight,  and 
w^as  invited  in.  He  blew  out  the  light  in  a  great  lantern 
he  carried,  but  still  paused,  looking  in  through  the  open 
lattice. 

"  You'll  have  to  be  my  surety  this  is  no  bedevilment, 
Mistress  Sukey,"  said  he. 

"  What  ails  the  man,  to  be  talking  about  bedevil- 
ments  ?  "  The  woman  spoke  in  a  genial,  rallying  manner 
she  could  assume  at  times.  "  Nothing  venture,  nothing 
have.  Master  Eackham!  What! — ^will  you  not  risk  a 
little  to  catch  this  witch-wife?  Then  leave  it  and  go, 
for  me.     But  the  chance  is  lost  if  the  clock  strikes." 

Tlie  groom  appeared  to  reflect.  His  fear  of  some  un- 
canny complication  of  sorcery — not  on  the  score  of  its 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE  201 

unholiness,  but  of  its  possible  inconvenience  or  danger — 
was  contending  with  his  anxiety  to  avenge  himself  for 
the  pranks  some  old  harridan  in  league  with  the  Devil 
had  played  on  his  horse.  He  grunted  and  hesitated,  but 
ended  by  walking  into  the  house. 

Said  Mrs.  Susan  then :  "  We  have  no  time  to  lose, 
Master  Rackham.  'Tis  an  easy  matter,  for  your  part 
of  it  at  least.  Take  in  your  hand  this  mirror.  Sit  you 
down  and  gaze  in  it  until  you  see  a  cloud  appear." 

^^  And  what  will  come  o'  that,  Mistress  Sukey  ?  " 

^^  If  the  time  be  lost  a-talking,  Master  Rackham,  very 
little.  Will  you  lose  your  chance,  and  wait  for  next 
Lammas  Eve  to  try  again?  Or  will  you  do  my  bidding 
and  make  no  question  ?  " 

Apparently  the  latter.  For,  under  direction,  the 
groom  is  set  to  gaze  fixedly  on  the  little  mirror,  a  convex 
circle  of  polished  jet,  not  large  enough  to  cover  the  palm 
of  his  hand.  He  can  see  in  it  the  image  of  his  own  face, 
small  and  fairly  clear,  and  of  the  room  beyond  it,  w4th 
the  flickering  candle  on  the  table  he  sits  by.  He  watches 
them  with  growing  incredulity,  as  he  looks  in  vain  for 
the  promised  cloud.  At  last  his  patience  gives  out. 
^'  You  are  making  an  ass  of  me,  mistress,"  says  he. 

"  That's  a  man  all  over,  mother,"  says  Mrs.  Trant. 
And  the  old  woman,  after  making  her  say  it  again,  nods 
her  assent,  and  repeats  the  words,  mocking.  '^  A  man 
all  over,  daughter."  Whereupon  the  crystal-gazer, 
ashamed,  renews  his  patience.  But  no  cloud  comes ; 
only  a  stupefaction — not  sleep.  Something  he  cannot 
resist. 

Is  there  a  watchfulness  as  of  anticipated  triumph  in 
the  green  eyes  that  are  fixed  upon  him?  Some  influence 
has  taken  a  hold  that  a  few  moments  since  he  could  have 


202  AX  APEAIE  OE  DISHONOR 

resisted  easily.  It  is  growing,  and  that  triumphant  look, 
is  it  not  growing  too?  His  eyes  are  closing  against  his 
will,,  but  his  hand  still  holds  the  little  mirror,  as  though 
he  saw. 

A  moment  later  the  mother  nods  slightly  to  the 
daughter,  saying,  ^'  Now ! "  The  daughter  responds,  ^^  I 
know,"  as  one  who,  knowing,  needs  no  advice.  Presently, 
in  her  own  time,  she  rises  from  her  chair,  and,  crossing 
over  to  Mr.  Rackham,  who  seems  to  be  trying  to  drag  his 
eyes  open,  lays  her  left  hand  upon  his  head,  as  though  her 
confidence  in  its  power  made  the  right  needless,  and  says, 
with  a  sinister  assurance :  "  Try  now  and  move ;  you 
cannot!  " 

And  he  cannot.  Witch  or  no  w^tch,  aided  by  familiars 
or  only  by  her  own  cunning,  Mrs.  Trant  has  got  a  hold 
of  some  sort  over  this  old  groom  he  may  be  at  a  loss 
to  shake  off. 

That  night  a  cock  crew  loud,  but  mistakenly,  for  no 
dawn  had  come,  under  the  window  of  Lucinda's  room. 
It  wakened  her,  to  find  that  Sir  Oliver  had  left  her  side 
and  was  without  on  the  staircase.  Was  this  another 
sleep-walking?  If  so,  it  was  more  alarming  than  the 
last,  for  his  sword  was  drawn  in  his  hand. 

But  it  was  no  sleep-walking,  for  at  her  sudden  excla- 
mation— though  "  What,  Oliver,  why  ?  "  was  all  she  said 
— he  turned  and  answered  her  collectedly.  "  There  be 
thieves  in  the  house;  I  heard  their  noise,"  said  he.  "  Be 
silent,  and  I  shall  catch  them."  Then  he  stole  down  the 
stairs,  going  stealthily  as  a  cat,  his  silken  roquelaure 
gleaming  in  the  moonlight  through  coloured  glass,  till  he 
reached  the  lobby  of  the  great  kitchen.  Lucinda  was 
close  on  his  heels. 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOE  203 

"  Thou  wert  best  in  bed,  Lucy  mine/'  said  he,  "  except 
you  have  a  fancy  to  see  a  man  killed."  This  last  was  more 
rough  speech  than  was  common  with  him — ^less  of  the 
manner  that,  as  men  such  as  he  think,  women  suppose 
their  due. 

^^  He  may  be  quick  afoot,  good  Oliver,"  said  she.  "  But 
I  will  see  it  out,  whatever  chances.  Where  was  the  noise, 
pray  ?  "  To  which  he  answered  nothing,  only  going  for- 
ward to  the  kitchen-door.     Still,  she  followed  him  close. 

There  was  a  man  in  the  kitchen,  standing  still,  his 
face  colourless  in  the  moonlight,  his  eyes  fixed,  as  though 
sightless.  ''  Stop — stop,  Oliver !  "  cried  Lucinda,  arrest- 
ing his  sword  arm.  "Can  you  not  see  ^tis  John 
Kackham?" 


CHAPTEK  XIII 

'^  How  can  I  say,  my  lady  ? ''  said  Susan  Trant,  comb- 
ing her  mistress's  hair  before  the  glass,  the  morning  after. 
*'  Can  I  answer  for  one  so  strange  as  Mr.  Rackham  ? 
All  I  have  to  tell  is  this: — near  upon  midnight  we  left 
him,  to  come  to  himself  as  soon  as  might  be,  and  find  his 
own  way  to  the  stables.  I  never  knew,  nor  my  mother, 
that  he  had  not  returned  there." 

Her  master  was  still  sleeping  in  the  next  room,  and 
could  scarcely  have  heard  a  word.  But  Lucinda  thought 
it  best  to  drop  her  voice  to  say :  "  Sir  Oliver  was  in  a 
great  taking,  that  the  door  should  be  unlocked  and  un- 
barred through  the  night."  And,  continuing,  she  en- 
larged upon  the  danger  to  the  household  from  midnight 
marauders  or  mere  thieves.  To  this  Susan  replied  that 
all  such  were  held  in  terror  by  the  bloodhounds,  turned 
loose  at  night,  which  had  bred  a  carelessness  both  in  her- 
self and  in  her  mother  about  the  door-fastening.  Still, 
she  acknowledged  that  Sir  Oliver's  instructions  should 
have  been  more  strictly  followed. 

"  And  yet,  what  could  we  do,  we  two  women  ?  "  said 
she.  "  Even  could  we  have  lifted  him^  we  had  not  the 
heart  to  bundle  the  poor  man  out  to  lie  on  the  cold  ground,^ 
and  maybe  the  rain  not  keeping  off.  Just  for  the  drink- 
ing of  a  glass  too  much  of  small  ale !  " 

"  Only  one  glass,  Susan !  "  Lucinda  laughed  out  at 
this.  But  Mrs.  Trant  became  so  warm  in  justification 
of  the  groom,  so  far  as  his  sobriety  went ;  and,  so  to  speak, 
so  overdid  her  defence  of  him,  that  her  mistress  began  to 

204 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOISrOR  205 

have  suspicions  of  some  mystery  in  the  background. 
It  may  have  been  due  to  her  attendant's  manner  that  she 
did  so,  and  it  is  far  from  certain  that  this  manner  was 
not  artificial,  and  assumed  with  intention  to  provoke 
inquiry,  as  may  be  seen  from  what  followed. 

For  Lucinda,  speaking  to  Sir  Oliver  of  this  oddity  of 
Trant's,  as  she  always  called  her  in  conversation  with 
him,  was  met  with :  "  Make  the  wench  talk ;  she  will  tell 
you  more.  She's  a  sly  soul,  but  she'll  never  keep  her 
tongue  quiet,  in  the  end."  But  as  he  said  this  he  knew 
Susan's  silence  was  sure  on  the  only  subject  he  cared 
she  should  be  silent  about — namely,  her  relation  with 
himself.  Concerning  which  it  can  but  be  said  that  its 
continuance  after  her  marriage  had  been  as  much  due  to 
his  wicked  rejoicing  at  wickedness  in  secrecy  as  to  any 
strong  fascination  the  farmer's  wife  still  exercised  over 
him.  In  any  case,  he  knew  that  her  confidence  in  her 
own  power  was  not  strong  enough  to  set  her  a-talking  to 
his  present  mistress,  to  provoke  her  against  him. 

Lucinda,  then,  free  of  apprehension  of  any  serious 
matter  behind  what  was  palpably  a  screen  of  conceal- 
ment, went  back  that  same  day  to  the  subject,  urging 
Mrs.  Trant  to  make  no  further  secrets,  but  to  say  truly 
what  ailed  John  Rackham  that  he  should  look  so  white, 
and  that  he  should — so  she  described  it — push  and  pinch 
at  his  eyelids,  as  though  they  had  gone  stiff.  Thereto 
the  orb  of  the  eye  itself  was  fixed,  and  lacked  all  expres- 
sion of  thought.  This  was  unlike  a  drunken  man.  Had 
he  taken  some  poisonous  drug,  that  so  strange  an  effect 
should  come  about?  She  was  earnest  to  be  told  all, 
and  would  be  Mrs.  Susan's  surety  no  harm  should  come 
to  her  of  the  telling. 

Then  Mrs.  Trant,  after  some  paltering  and  evasions, 


206  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

made  sudden  admission,  as  one  rather  relieved  by  doing 
so,  that  she  had  in  effect  put  a  practice  on  the  groom — a 
thing  she  had  been  taught  in  her  youth — but  more  as  a 
jest  than  for  any  profit  she  could  reap  of  it,  there  being 
none.  Her  success  had,  she  said,  alarmed  both  herself 
and  her  mother. 

But  what — Lucinda  then  asked,  with  a  roused  curiosity 
— what  was  this  practice,  learned  in  youth,  that  could 
so  confound  and  overcome  the  senses  of  a  man  of  John 
Rackham's  age  and  stolid,  unmoved  habit,  both  of 
thought  and  action?  Was  it  not  akin  to  witchcraft,  and 
unlawful  ? 

"  Witchcraft,  my  lady !  "  Susan  exclaimed.  "  And 
unlawful !  "  She  was  profuse  in  her  disclaimer  of  nec- 
romancy. Was  not  she  the  last  person,  of  all  in  the 
house,  seeing  what  she  had  suffered  in  past  years  from 
unjust  suspicions,  to  have  any  dealings  with  the  Evil 
One  ?  No — ^no !  No  witchcraft  for  her !  ^^  If  I  were 
minded,"  she  continued,  "  to  toy  and  dally  with  a  for- 
bidden craft,  should  I  dare  to  do  so  in  the  house  of  my 
good  and  worshipful  master.  Sir  Oliver,  through  whose 
intervention  alone  I  escaped  barbarous  ill-treatment  and 
cruel  persecution  seven  years  since?  Should  I  make  no 
secret  of  so  sinful  a  practice,  even  taking  my  own  mother 
into  my  confidence  ?  " 

"  But  what  is  the  thing  you  Jiave  done  ?  "  said  Lucinda. 
"  That  is  what  I  would  know.  God  a'  mercy,  woman, 
if  you  can  make  no  secret  of  it  to  your  mother,  you  need 
not  keep  it  from  me." 

"  'Tis  a  trick  a  child  may  play,  my  lady.  We  knew 
it  as  girls — I  and  my  fellows  in  the  village.  Some 
of  us  had  the  gift  to  do  it,  others  were  fitter  to  be  prac- 
tised on." 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  20Y 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  Do  you  tell  me  of  it,  Susan,  that 
I  may  know  too.  Trust  me,  I  shall  never  betray  you. 
See ! — I  will  swear  it,  if  it  please  you  better." 

Now,  there  lay  on  a  shelf,  near  by  where  they  talked 
together,  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Scriptures.  For  this  was 
in  Lucinda^s  tiring-room,  where  Sir  Oliver  came  but 
little.  She  stretched  forth  her  hand  to  take  up  the 
sacred  volume,  as  though  to  pledge  her  oath  upon  it  as 
a  Christian.  But  Mrs.  Trant  would  have  none  of  this. 
"  Let  be,  my  lady,"  says  she.  "  This  that  we  talk  of  is 
a  play  of  children,  not  a  thing  to  be  sworn  upon  in  God's 
name."  Whereupon  Lucinda,  thinking  to  herself,  ^*  If 
this  woman  touch  the  holy  volume,  then  is  she  no 
witch,"  held  it  out  to  her  to  replace  on  the  shelf.  But 
she  remembered  afterwards  that  Mrs.  Trant  did  not 
then  take  it  from  her,  outright  and  fearlessly;  but,  mak- 
ing some  pretext  that  her  fingers  were  soiled,  and  not  fit 
to  handle  the  leather  binding,  protected  it  with  her  apron, 
so  that  her  hand  touched  it  not. 

Then  said  Lucinda  again :  "  But  what  sort  of  thing  is 
this  game  or  practice?    I  am  impatient  to  know." 

"  It  is  thus,"  replied  her  attendant :  "  Whoever  can, 
by  persuasion  or  reward,  induce  another  to  keep  a  fixed 
gaze  for  some  while  on  any  object — it  may  be  a  ring  or 
any  jewel — worn  on  the  person,  then  'tis  said  the  wearer 
will  have  power  over  such  a  one  as  gazes  on  it,  to  com- 
mand him  at  will." 

"  And  you  did  this  to  John  Rackham  ?  " 

"  For  a  jest,  my  lady.  I  promised  to  show  him, 
as  in  a  gazing  crystal  .  .  .  your  ladyship  has  heard  of 
such   .    .    .    ?" 

"  Nay — surely !     'Tis  a  thing  well  known." 

"  I  promised  Mr.  Rackham  should  see  therein  the  face 


208  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

of  the  woman  that  has  bewitched  his  colt  Merlin  these 
weeks  past.  And  he  taking  me  at  my  word,  I  set 
him  to  pry  into  a  piece  of  black  jet  I  had  carried  in 
my  bosom  all  day  and  night,  to  be  the  riper  for  the 
purpose." 

"  And  what  happened  ?  " 

"  He  saw  no  witch,  I  promise  you.  Nor  there  is  none 
for  him  to  see.  But  he  did  my  bidding,  clasping  his 
hands,  opening  and  shutting  his  mouth,  just  as  I  said. 
iThen  I  bade  him  say  your  ladyship's  maiden  name  ..." 

"And  what  said  he  then?  " 

"  Will  you  be  angry,  my  lady  ?  " 

"Not  I!— 'tis  too  silly.     What  said  he?" 

"  *  Mistress  Lucinda  Mauleverer,  of  the  Old  Hall,  near 
%o  Poynder's  Stratton.'  "  Now,  it  should  be  borne  in 
mind  that  none  of  Lucinda's  communications  with  her 
brother  had,  so  far  as  she  knew,  reached  any  other  ears 
than  his;  except,  indeed,  it  had  been  the  claim  she  had 
made  to  another  name  than  this,  which  might  have 
reached  Dame  Hatsell's.  Therefore  this  was  clearly  a 
thing  said  by  John  Rackham ;  truly  reported,  seeing  that 
he  alone  of  all  in  the  house  knew  what  her  maiden  name 
had  been. 

"  What  more  did  he  say  ?  There  was  no  harm  in 
that." 

"I  asked 'him — 'twas  for  the  sake  of  the  asking,  just 
that  he  should  talk — ^no  idle  curiosity  of  mine  own,  my 
lady   .    .    ." 

"Well!— you  asked  him   ...    ?" 

"  Were  your  ladyship's  parents  still  living  ?  '^ 

"  And  he  said   .    .    .    ? " 

"  He  said  your  ladyship's  mother  was  dead  four  years 


AN  AEEAIR  OF  DISHON^OR  209. 

"  That  was  true.  Alas  that  it  is  so !  But  he  told  you 
my  father  is  living  ?  " 

"  ^-no ! ''  Mrs.  Trant  shook  her  head  falteringly. 
"  ^  Dead/  he  said.  Surely  I  was  right  in  my  hear- 
ing   .    .    .- 

"  He  is  not  dead   .    .    .    !  " 

"  Your  ladyship  would  know — that  is  certain."  Then 
a  little  creeping  doubt  nested  in  Lucinda's  mind,  saying 
to  her :  "  How  should  we  know,  you  and  I  ?  "  Mrs. 
Trant  continued:  "Mr.  Rackham's  speech  was  not  over 
plain  in  the  saying  of  it,  seeing  he  clutched  his  teeth  upon 
his  spoken  word,  and  grudged  it  breath.  But  I  would 
have  sworn  it  was,  '  Dead  there  and  then !  He  must  have 
died.'  " 

"  Oh,  but  he  was  talking  nonsense !  My  father  is 
living,  and  like  to  live  many  years."  Lucinda's  speech 
fell  short  of  absolute  confidence.  "  Yet  listen  to  me, 
Susan  Trant.  Whatever  Rackham  may  say,  when  you 
play  this  trick  upon  him,  the  thing  is  near  as  strange  as 
though  all  he  said  were  true.  Why  should  he  tell  other 
than  truth  of  a  thing  he  knows  quite  well? — unless,  as 
may  be,  he  speaks  from  a  dream-world,  as  men  talk  in 
sleep.     Sir  Oliver  is  given  that  way,  now  and  again." 

Susan  Trant  seemed  puzzled  to  word  something  she 
would  have  said.  "  'Tis  not  quite  as  you  suppose,  my 
lady   .    .    .   well ! — 'tis  thus — how  shall  I  say  ?  "   .    .    . 

"  It  does  not  matter.  The  thing  is  passing  strange, 
and  I  am  curious  to  see  it.  .  .  .  But  what  were  you 
about  to  say  it  was  like  ?  " 

"  Your  ladyship  has  seen  the  prank  of  boys,  who  for 
sport  will  hold  to  the  ground  the  beak  of  some  dung- 
hill cock,  and  line  it  with  chalk  so  that  the  line  follows 
true  on  the  barn  floor  ?  " 


210  AN  AFFAIE  OF  ^DISHONOR 

"Ay — and  the  poor  bird  so  great  a  fool  he  thinks  he 
cannot  move,  and  is  stricken  fast  to  the  ground  by  his 
own  mere  apprehension.  But  he  makes  no  sound  at 
bidding." 

"  True,  my  lady!  But  the  trick  is  of  a  piece,  in  its 
degree." 

"  May  I  not  see  this  practice  of  yours  on  John 
Rackham?" 

"  Your  ladyship  will  not  name  it  to  Sir  Oliver  ? " 

'^  I  have  no  wish  nor  need  to  do  so.  Also,  Sir  Oliver 
is  something  hot  and  headstrong,  and  his  impatience 
might  break  a  gap  into  what  would  else  hold  good.  He 
will  never  believe  neither  but  that  Eackham  is  feign- 
ing, and  might  deal  roughly  with  him.  But  when 
may  I  see  thy  barn-door  fowl  chalk-lined  ?  "  Lucinda 
hid  whatever  she  felt  of  misgiving  that  this  was  a 
forbidden  magic,  or  some  shrewd  imposture,  under  a 
cloak  of  jesting  familiarity  with  her  tirewoman,  as 
though  the  whole  thing  were  a  slight  diversion  of  the 
moment. 

But  in  the  end  it  was  arranged  thus: — John  Rackham 
is  to  come  at  the  bidding  of  Mrs.  Susan,  who  seems  all- 
powerful  with  him,  to  the  large  disused  drawing-room, 
whence  no  speech  can  reach  any  other  part  of  the  house, 
the  lobby  being  closed  at  either  end  by  a  separate  door. 
So  soon  as  she  has,  as  it  were,  prepared  all  things,  and 
acquired  a  full  mastery  over  him,  she  must  give  the  word 
to  her  mistress,  who  will  await  it  in  this  closed  passage, 
whereof  she  may  lock  the  outer  door  without  causing  any 
suspicion,  provided  no  noise  within  should  reach  Sir 
Oliver's  ears,  should  he  pass  that  way.  That  was  the 
arrangement  spoken  of  between  Susan  and  her  mistress. 
But  as  it  proved  in  the  outcome,  this  door  might  as  well 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHON^OR  211 

have  been  left  unlocked — indeed,  better,  as  will  be  seen 
later. 

Was  there  a  kindling  of  anticipated  triumph  in  this 
woman's  eyes  that  afternoon  as  she  stepped  out  into  the 
paved  yard  the  kitchen  looked  on,  beyond  which  were 
the  stables,  where  John  Rackham  was  usually  audible 
hissing  at  the  horse  he  curry-combed,  slapping  it  on  the 
stomach  to  suggest  a  shift  of  place,  drenching  it  with 
pails  of  water  and  slights,  as  is  the  way  with  grooms? 
There  was  an  uncanny  assurance,  at  least,  about  the  way 
she  said,  as  she  met  him  coming  from  the  stable  door, 
swinging  the  pails  he  had  a  mind  to  refill  at  the  tank 
below :  "  I  want  you.  Master  Rackham,  to  come  to  the  ball- 
room an  hour  before  sundown.  Come  you  in  by  the  ken- 
nels, where  the  window  shall  be  stood  open  for  you.  'Tis 
my  lady's  bidding,  and  mine ;  see  to  it  that  you  come." 

The  groom  stood  down  his  pails  on  either  side,  and 
spoke,  looking  askant.  "  What  if  I  come  not.  Mistress 
Sukey  ?  "  said  he.  His  voice  was  irresolute,  for  all  it 
snarled. 

But  there  was  resolve  in  hers,  though  with  a  kind  of 
mocking  sweetness.  "  Thou  ivilt  come,"  she  said.  "  It 
lies  not  with  thee  to  choose,  John  Rackham."  She  spoke 
as  to  a  child,  using  familiar  speech  that  seemed  ill-fitted 
to  the  grizzled  man  she  addressed. 

He  growled  his  resentment  at  this  assumption  of  power, 
whether  it  was  to  attract  or  command.  ^^  If  I  was  a  bit 
younger,  mistress,"  said  he,  "  I'd  know  which  to  choose. 
Or  if  ye  were  a  bit  younger  yourself  .  .  .  well ! — / 
wouldn't  be  the  first."  He  meant  to  be  offensive,  but  it 
was  a  coarse  and  unskilful  effort,  and  told  for  nothing. 
Mrs.  Trant  remained  unmoved.  She  replied  with  equable 
good-humour : 


212  'AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOJSTOR 

"  You  will  be  in  the  South  Court,  Master  Rackham,  to 
feed  the  bloodhounds,  where  the  ballroom  window  opens. 
lYou  will  desire  to  be  gone,  but  you  will  cry  back  on  your 
desire,  and  stay.  You  will  then  come  by  the  ballroom 
window,  as  I  have  told  you.  !N^or  you  shall  not  know 
why  you  come.  And  yet,  come  you  must!  The  choice 
will  not  be  yours." 

"  Stand  clear,  mistress,"  said  John  Rackham.  "  Have 
I  the  time  to  waste,  palavering  with  the  likes  of  thee  ?  " 
And  he  swung  away  from  her  with  his  pails,  going  to  the 
water-tank  below,  but  muttering  uneasily  to  himself. 

The  wind  was  blowing  off  the  sea  that  evening  towards 
sundown,  bringing  white  mist  and  gusts  of  fine  rain.  It 
was  that  sort  of  light  drift  that  keeps  no  man  within 
doors,  and  Sir  Oliver  would  have  had  Lucinda  ride  with 
him  in  spite  of  it.  She,  however,  remained,  partly  be- 
cause the  young  horse,  her  only  mount  now,  was  restive 
again,  which  the  groom  would  have  it  was  caused  by  his 
enemy  the  witch,  that  had  ridden  the  colt  in  the  night- 
time. There  were  the  witch-marks  on  him,  plain  to  see ! 
His  own  horse  had  cast  a  shoe,  and  was  to  be  led  to  the 
farrier's  in  the  morning.     So  Sir  Oliver  rode  alone. 

Mr.  Rackham.,  in  the  South  Court  on  which  the  ball- 
room windows  opened,  wondered  what  had  come  to  the 
dogs.  Were  they  bewitched,  too?  Old  Diego — or  Spot, 
as  he  was  now  called,  from  the  white  spot  on  his  forehead 
— would  not  come  to  his  hand,  but  shrank  and  shivered 
back  into  his  kennel.  Zo,  the  old  black-backed  bitch, 
mother  of  the  many  pups  Sir  Oliver  had  sold  to  his 
friends,  was  even  more  intractable,  snapping  at  his  hand 
as  it  reached  her  collar.  This  was  unwonted,  for  the 
bloodhound   is   a  sweet   and  docile  dog — whatever   folk 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE  213 

may  imagine  from  the  terror  of  his  name — and  nowise 
like  the  fierce  white  Maremma  dog,  nor  the  untrust- 
worthy breed  of  St.  Bernard,  however  sagacious  this  last 
may  be  in  the  service  of  man. 

But  even  bewitched  dogs  are  content  to  be  fed  and 
cared  for,  and  in  time  this  was  done;  and  now  it  comes 
to  be  seen  whether  Mr.  Rackham  will  go  back  to  the 
stable;  or,  obedient  to  the  injunction  he  has  received, 
enter  the  house  by  the  window  to  seek  Mrs.  Trant  in  the 
ballroom.  He  seems  to  have  no  doubt  on  the  matter, 
turning  away  to  go,  yet  showing  himself  aware  that  some 
influence  is  upon  him  by  muttering :  "  We  shall  see  who 
is  to  be  master,  Mistress  Sukey ! ''  And  yet,  no  sooner 
has  he,  as  it  were,  convinced  himself  that  his  will  is  free 
to  choose  if  he  shall  go  or  stay,  than  he  turns  back  with 
an  oath  under  his  breath,  yet  hesitating  now  and  again 
on  his  way  to  the  window,  and  at  last — it  may  be  sur- 
mised— convinced  that  he  is  acting  of  his  own  choice, 
lays  his  hand  upon  it,  and,  pushing  at  it,  finds  it  open; 
for  it  opens  inwards,  reaching  to  the  floor. 

So  far,  there  may  have  been  nothing  of  necromancy  in 
this.  ISTothing,  that  is,  of  any  necromancy  but  the 
world-old,  familiar  enchantment  every  woman  with  the 
hall-mark  of  Mother  Venus  on  her  can  practise  at  will 
on  any  man  turned  out  of  N'ature's  mint — ay! — even 
though  he  be  nearer  his  grave  than  this  grizzled  old 
servitor;  this  most  unpromising  mark,  one  would  say, 
for  the  poisoned  arrows  of  her  baby-son.  But  then  this 
story  has  only  Mrs.  Susan's  word  to  go  by  for  what  took 
place  in  the  kitchen  not  twenty-four  hours  since.  For, 
to  gain  an  end  she  had  in  view,  it  may  have  suited  her 
to  make  light  of  her  own  knowledge,  while  really  tam- 
pering with  the  black  art;  so  that  Lucinda  should  feel 


214  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE 

no  alarm,  and  not  shrink  away  from  the  hearing  of  what 
it  suited  her  attendant  she  should  know.  The  story,  as 
it  chances,  is  ignorant  of  what  passed  before  the  woman 
left  the  subject  of  these  practices  of  hers  alone  in  the 
kitchen,  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  them  as  best  he 
might. 

Whatever  was  the  nature  of  the  influence  that  brought 
old  John  to  put  his  neck  again  in  the  noose  that  it  was 
easy  for  him,  to  all  appearance,  to  have  escaped,  it  was 
the  work  of  Susan  Trant,  who  awaited  him  in  the  great 
empty  ballroom — empty,  that  is,  of  all  but  mirrors,  pic- 
tures, and  furniture  packed  in  sacking.  He  did  not  see 
her  at  first,  and,  indeed,  was  breathing  the  freer  to  think 
she  had  not  kept  her  appointment,  when  her  laugh  came 
to  him  from  behind,  and,  turning,  he  saw  her  standing  in 
the  window- jamb  he  had  but  just  passed.  Later,  he  put 
this  down  to  some  sudden  witchcraft  of  hers,  doubting 
that  his  lack  of  observation  on  entering  could  have 
deceived  him. 

She,  for  her  part,  laughed  an  under-laugh,  not  pleasant 
to  hear.  "  Why  do  you  come  for  my  bidding  so  freely, 
good  John  ?  "  said  she.  "  See  now ! — there  is  the  window. 
Thou  art  thine  own  master.  Why  not  go  ?  "  She  leaned, 
saying  this,  against  the  shutter,  now  folded  in  its  place. 
"  Is  the  space  too  narrow  to  pass  ?  See ! — I  will  stand 
back."  She  kept  her  arms  akimbo,  facing  him  in  the 
shadow  of  the  wall,  but  with  all  her  comeliness  at  its 
best. 

The  groom  looked  and  spoke  sullenly.  "  What  do  you 
want  of  me,  mistress  ?  "  said  he.  But  he  made  no  move 
to  go. 

"What  should  I  want,  Master  Kackham,  but  to  do  a 
good  turn  to  a  graceless  loon,  that  knows  not  his  own 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOl^OK  215 

advantage?  Sit  you  down  here,  facing  the  light — unless 
you  have  a  wish  to  be  gone.  .  .  .  See! — the  way  is 
open.  .  .  .  Wilt  thou  not  go  ?  .  .  .  No  ? — well,  then, 
take  this  in  your  hand  again,  as  last  night,  and  keep  to 
looking  constantly  therein,  till  I  say  ^  Stop ! '  " 

She  placed  the  jet  circle  in  his  hand  again,  as  last  night. 
^^  Shall  I  see  the  face  of  the  witch-wife  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Very  like !  "  was  her  reply.  She  withdrew  slowly 
back  to  a  dark  corner  of  the  great  room,  leaving  him 
under  the  light  of  the  centre  window  seated  on  the  cov- 
ering of  a  packed  fauteuilj  or  sofa,  with  his  eyes  fixed 
on  the  little  black  mirror. 

"  Surely  he  is  asleep,  Susan." 

"  E'ot  asleep,  my  lady !  " 

"  Then  .  .  .  what  ?  He  breathes  heavily,  and  hears 
not  what  we  say.  And  see — his  eyes  are  closed.  Wake 
him!     I  do  not  like  this  practice." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  fear,  my  lady.  I  have  seen  many 
another  thus.  Think  you  I  would  compass  any  ill  ? 
What  grudge  have  I  against  Mr.  Kackham?  Now  mark 
what  I  do,  and  you  shall  see  this  is  no  common  sleep." 
So  far  Lucinda  and  her  tirewoman  spoke  together,  the 
one  having  come  at  the  other's  summons  from  the  lobby 
without.  Then  the  latter,  going  closer  to  the  sofa,  lays 
her  hand  over  the  groom's  head,  pressing  her  thumb  be- 
tween his  eyes.  ^^  Thou  canst  not  open  thine  eyes,"  says 
she,  with  a  strange  assurance. 

Then  to  Lucinda's  wonder,  and  somewhat  fear,  the 
man,  who  seems  now  to  hear  plainly,  begins  to  strain  at 
his  eyes,  so  to  speak,  to  get  them  to  open,  but  fails  to  do 
more  than  show  the  whites,  as  though  the  orb  of  the  eye 
itself  had  vanished  upwards. 


216  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOE 

"  Oh,  Susan !  "  cries  Lucinda,  in  alarm.  "  Undo  him, 
I  beg  of  you !  This  is  unholy."  Then  she  herself,  over- 
coming a  reluctance  to  touch  him,  seizes  the  lappet  of  his 
coat,  shaking  him,  and  saying :  ^'  Wake  up,  John  Eack- 
ham,  wake  up!    Think  if  Sir  Oliver  should  come!" 

But  there  stands  Mrs.  Trant,  her  green  eyes  most 
satisfied,  and  watches  on,  with  a  still  assurance.  "  He 
will  not  speak,  my  lady,  except  I  give  him  leave," 
says  she. 

"  Then  give  him  leave,  in  God's  name,"  cries  Lucinda, 
"  and  let  him  come  to  himself !  "  Her  alarm  is  growing 
stronger  as  the  thing  gets  stranger. 

^^  Will  you  have  an  end,  my  lady,  and  never  know  the 
meaning  of  his  tale  of  last  night  ?  But  I  will  make  him 
speak  for  himself,  touching  that.  Listen  to  me,  Master 
Rackham,  and  answer  me  truly.  Now — hast  thou  found 
thy  voice  ?  "  He  muttered  something,  and  Mrs.  Trant 
repeated,  as  one  who  interprets :  ''  What  would  her  lady- 
ship have  you  say?  Why — hearken  now  to  what  she 
will  tell  you  of  her  father,  and  unsay  your  tale  of  last 
night." 

"  Ay — ^what  could  possess  you,  Mr.  Rackham,  to  make 
up  such  a  story?  My  father  is  alive  and  well."  But 
Lucinda  did  not  feel  the  confidence  she  affected. 

The  groom  seemed  to  struggle  against  his  own  speech. 
"I  am  not  minded  to  tell  all  I  know.  That  tale  should 
come  from  the  master." 

"  Oh,  Susan,  what  is  that  he  says  ?  His  voice  chokes 
in  his  throat,  and  his  words  are  lost." 

"  Repeat  that  again,  for  my  lady's  hearing.  Find  thy 
voice,  man !  "  Thus  Mrs.  Trant,  in  whom  a  sly,  malicious 
expectation  accords  well  with  something  of  the  seeming 
of  a  handsome  cat. 


'AN  AFEAIK  OF  DISHONOR  217 

Rackham,  his  eyes  always  closed,  blurts  out,  as  un- 
willing speech :  "  I  said — that  tale  should  come  from  the 
master.  How  can  the  blame  be  mine?  Let  him 
answer  it !  " 

Then  Lucinda,  with  a  terror  of  she  knows  not  what 
newly  come  upon  her,  beseeches  the  groom  to  make  no 
further  secret  of  the  thing  he  means.  Has  something  she 
should  know  been  kept  from  her  ?  ^'  Speak  out,  John 
Rackham,  speak  out !  '^ — she  cries. — "  Oh,  what  can  all 
this  mean  ?  "  And  thereat  she  sinks  down  on  a  couch 
near  by,  white  and  trembling,  yet  with  strength  rather 
to  hear  and  know  than  to  be  tortured  with  doubts. 

Then  Mrs.  Trant,  keeping  her  hand  still  on  the  groom's 
grizzled  head,  says  imperatively :  ^^  You  hear  what  says 
my  lady?  Make  no  more  ado,  but  tell  her  thy  tale  of 
the  duel,  and  her  father's  death."  Thus  she  showed  that 
she  had  never  yet  told  all  of  what  had  passed  the  night 
before. 

But  when  Lucinda,  giving  a  great  cry  at  the  words, 
'^  her  father's  death,"  staggered  to  her  feet,  and  then  fell 
back,  white  and  dumb,  Susan  made  as  though  to  com- 
municate to  her  by  signs,  as  between  themselves,  that  all 
this  was  but  a  fantastic  dream,  a  delusion.  Then  Lucinda, 
interpreting  aright  her  gestures  of  brow  and  mouth,  got 
calmness  to  listen,  sickened  though  she  was  with  the  bare 
mention  of  a  thing  so  terrible. 

Rackham  then,  speaking  as  though  the  words  were 
dragged  from  him  by  some  force,  tells  again  the  tale  it 
seems  he  had  already  told — at  least,  in  part.  It  is  the 
tale  told  early  in  this  story,  as  seen  by  one  of  its  actors. 
As  he  proceeds,  so  impossible  does  the  whole  thing  seem 
to  Lucinda  that  she  can  respond  to  Mrs.  Trant's  slight 
sigTis,  hinting  at  his  complete  delusion,  with  a  half-nod  of 


218  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

sincere  assent.  It  is  hallucination  all  through,  clearly! 
But  grotesque  as  it  is — for,  otherwise,  would  not  Oliver 
be  a  liar? — she  cannot  but  shudder  at  the  outburst  of  a 
brutal  earnestness  over  the  last  thrust,  as  the  groom  casts 
aside  the  mask  of  his  wicked  heart  to  tell  it. 

And  with  that  he  ended,  saying,  in  response  to  a  word 
of  Mrs.  Trant's :  "  What  more,  mistress  ?  A  ride  home 
with  a  light  heart,  to  think  which  way  the  luck  had  gone  I 
And  my  gentleman  would  have  a  pail  of  water  to  wash 
clean  the  blood,  lest  his  lady  should  know  aught  of  his 
work  afore  breakfast,  and  was  off  from  the  stable-yard 
through  the  garden." 

But  upon  this  Lucinda  caught  him  up  short,  as  for  an 
error  in  fact.  For  how,  said  she,  could  Sir  Oliver  pass 
from  the  stable-yard  to  the  garden,  seeing  there  was  no 
door  ?  Then  says  Rackham :  "  Ay,  my  lady,  no  door 
to  pass  in  and  out,  but  one  Master  Oliver  would  have  me 
open  for  the  nonce  that  stood  ever  locked,  and  had  done 
for  years,  so  he  should  not  pass  through  the  house  to  be 
seen  of  the  household."  But  though  she  noted  this,  and 
recalled  it  later,  her  uppermost  thought  at  the  moment 
was  mixed  with  a  memory  of  how  she  tended  that  scratch 
on  Oliver's  brow  one  morning — when  was  it?  Surely 
the  very  day  he  was  seized  with  that  first  convulsion! 
But  oh — she  could  remember! — that  was  the  parrot, 
Chow,  and  the  parrot's  house  was  a  far  step  from 
the  stable-yard.  How  fanciful  she  got  at  the  least 
thing! 

Then  at  her  bidding,  seeing  that  Rackham  had  told  his 
story — and  who  could  say  his  reason  might  not  suffer  if 
this  went  on? — Mrs.  Trant,  affecting  or  truly  possessing 
a  complete  power  over  his  will,  went  through  sundry 
legerdemain  performances,  as  waving  of  her  hands  over 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  219 

his  forehead  or  blowing  on  it.  But  it  seemed  also  to 
Lucinda  that  in  the  doing  of  this  she  sang  some  catch- 
rhjme,  such  as  children  use  for  diversion.  She  did  not, 
however,  conceive  this  to  be  of  the  essence  of  the  busi- 
ness, but  only  an  idle  fancy.  Anyway,  in  the  end  Rack- 
ham  opened  his  eyes  of  a  sudden,  and  a  more  bewildered 
man  would  be  hard  to  find.  He  caught  his  head  in  his 
hands,  feeling  about  and  round  it,  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
gazed  upon  his  palms,  seeming  unsure  if  he  were  awake 
or  dreaming.  Then  he  said  in  a  daft  way,  turning  about 
and  gazing  blankly  at  the  air :  "  Where  is  he  ? '' 

"  Where  is  who,  thou  puzzle-pate  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Trant. 
"  There  is  none  here  but  my  lady  and  myself,  nor  has 
been  this  hour  gone  by.  Ay — ^look  in  all  the  cupboards 
if  you  will !  "  For  he  was  searching  about  with  his  eyes 
in  all  corners. 

"  Let  be,  Susan !  "  said  Lucinda.  "  Whom  do  you  seek 
so  keenly  ?  What  is  he  like  ? ''  She  spoke  as  one  who 
humours  a  jest. 

"  There  was  one  here  but  now,''  answered  the  groom 
doggedly.  ^^  One  of  them.  Mighty  small,  but  bad  to  have 
ado  with !    I  would  pay  him,  though." 

"  You  have  seen,  my  lady,  there  has  been  none  here." 
So  speaking,  Susan's  look  said :  "  Mark  his  humours  and 
fantasies !  "     But  he  caught  her  meaning. 

"  I  tell  thee  there  has  been  more  than  one  here.  Speak 
truth,  Susan  Trant." 

"  Her  ladyship  has  seen,  John  Rackham."  She  waited 
as  one  content  to  wait,  with  a  smile  at  the  folly  of  it. 
"  You  will  be  sorry  for  such  speech  when  your  wits  come 
again.  Master  Rackham,"  said  she. 

"  I  tell  thee,"  he  replied  angrily,  "  there  has  been  more 
than  one  here.     Else  had  they  never  made  me  tell  out 


220  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

all  this  tale.     A  plague  upon  'em,  and  upon  you,  too. 
Mistress  Sukey ! " 

"  But  the  tale  was  all  a  false  one !  "  cried  Lucinda. 
*^  Was  it  not  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  say  it  was  false !  "  Then  the 
groom's  face  got  a  stupid  grin  on  it,  as  he  answered: 
"  Never  a  word  of  truth  in  it,  mistress !  'Twas  put  upon 
me  to  say,  and  I  said  it."  For  his  senses  had  come  back 
to  him  thus  far,  that  he  could  see  how  welcome  his  dis- 
claimer would  be  of  the  truth  of  his  own  story.  But  not 
to  show  him  yet  awhile  how  inexplicable  had  been  his 
telling  of  it. 

Now  it  chanced  that  Sir  Oliver,  turning  back  impatient 
of  the  rain-drift  that  strengthened  ever  from  the  seaward, 
and  finding  no  groom  to  receive  him  in  the  stable-yard  as 
accustomed,  came  at  this  moment  within  the  house, 
exclaiming  against  his  servant  for  his  absence  from  his 
post  of  duty.  First  to  the  kitchen,  where  he  finds  none 
but  the  old  mother,  Dame  Hatsell;  by  which  he  is  none 
the  wiser,  for  she  either  cannot  or  will  not  say  she  knows 
aught  either  of  Rackham,  or  her  daughter,  or  her  lady. 
Whereupon  Sir  Oliver  swings  away  through  the  house 
with  an  oath,  and,  as  luck  will  have  it,  his  eye  lights  on 
the  one  thing  he  was  not  to  see,  the  vacant  keyhole  of 
the  ballroom  door.  Surely  stray  devil's  imps  prompt 
these  things  sometimes!  Seeing  the  door  keyless,  he 
must  needs  infer  that  someone  is  within,  or  has  been. 
For  why  otherwise  should  it  have  been  disturbed?  To 
know  more,  he  shakes  the  door  and  rattles  at  the  handle,, 
shouting.  Then  he  is  sure  of  a  voice  on  the  farther  side. 
For  the  two  women  within  speak  together,  disconcerted 
at  his  return.     So  he  rattles  again,  angrily. 

Lucinda  will  explain  all,  she  says,  and  takes  her  ke^ 


A:^r  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIs^OK  221 

to  open  the  door.  For  she  thinks  of  the  whole  thing  as 
a  mere  jape,  and  that  Oliver  will  laugh  at  the  telling  of  it. 
But  to  her  surprise,  Susan  Trant  was  greatly  concerned 
that  Sir  Oliver  should  not  be  told,  begging  her  to  keep 
silence.  "  But  if  he  ask  me  how  we  came  here,  good 
Susan,"  said  Lucinda,  "  tell  me — ^what  shall  I  say  then  ?  " 
However,  it  ended  thus,  for  the  time; — Rackham, 
still  bewildered,  was  packed  off  through  the  window,  and 
some  lame  excuse  concocted  which  was  made  to  serve, 
of  how  Lucinda  had  wished  to  try  the  old  spinet,  or  what 
not.  But  she  said  to  her  lover,  below  her  breath: 
"  I  shall  tell  thee  all  about  it  presently,  sweet  Oliver. 
'Twas  a  little  jest  of  ours."  Thereupon  he,  going  back 
to  the  stable-yard,  relieved  his  ill-temper  by  laying  his 
whip  about  the  shoulders  of  John  Rackham,  with  at  least 
one  good  effect,  that  the  groom  recovered  his  senses  all 
the  quicker,  though  he  became  very  hazy  about  what  had 
really  happened — ^more  so  than  at  first. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Vincent,  turning  round  on 
a  bed  where  he  had  lain  through  many  days  of  deliriimi, 
said  to  the  man  who  sat  beside  him,  watching  out  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning:  "  Roger,  take  my  hand  and 
tell  me  who  slew  him.     I  can  bear  to  hear  it  now." 

Then  Roger  Locke,  convinced  of  his  strength  by  his 
voice,  answered  without  a  qualm :  '^  He  was  slain  by 
Raydon  of  the  l^ew  Hall,  whom  I  would  have  made  to 
answer  for  his  misdeed,  but  that  the  hand  of  God  was 
upon  him,  and  our  Lucy  was  betwixt  us."  And  then  he 
told  him  the  whole  tale,  according  to  his  knowledge  of  it, 
and  the  two  spoke  together  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
and  what  they  spoke  of  was  retribution  for  a  murder; 
and  the  place  they  spoke  in  was  the  sleeping  chamber 


222  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

of  its  victim.  That  was  the  bed  on  which  his  corpse 
was  laid  two  months  since,  where  his  son  lies  now,  wasted 
with  fever  that  followed  the  shock  of  the  news  he  had 
to  hear. 

So  they  talked  until,  as  the  slow  dawn  began  to  creep 
in,  each  had  come  to  know  all  the  other  knew.  Then 
.Vincent  said  aloud :  ^^  Honour  is  gone,  but  Lucy  is  still 
there;  and  whatever  you  may  think,  Roger,  she  loves  her 
father  as  of  old.  I  know  both  by  word  and  manner,  and 
look.  You  thought  her  heart  was  changed.  But  no — 
no! — ^not  Lucy's!  Heaven  hasten  the  hour  that  may 
change  it  towards  her  miscreant  that  we  may  not  call 
to  his  account,  for  she  loves  him!  It  will  come,  and 
then  ..."  His  speech  grew  faint  from  exhaustion. 
And  it  was  so  with  him  for  many  days;  but  his  strength 
came  back  in  the  end,  as  we  shall  see. 

It  would  profit  nothing  to  tell  at  length  how  he  had 
ridden  nearly  to  his  home,  all  joyous  expectation  of  the 
meeting  to  come,  when,  stopping  at  the  recognition  of 
an  old  neighbour,  he  was  met  by  his  commiseration  for 
a  great  loss;  and,  being  told  the  tale,  fell  like  a  stone 
insensible,  never  hearing  the  name  of  the  man  who  had 
slain  his  father.  And  then,  being  borne  to  the  Old  Hall 
unconscious,  remained  in  half  or  entire  delirium,  with 
snatches  of  reason,  for  many  days  and  nights.  Moreover, 
it  is  easy  for  the  reader  to  image  all  he  needs  of  the 
events,  with  no  help  but  the  bare  facts  now  told. 


CHAPTEK  XIV 

LuciNDA  cast  about  in  her  heart  how  she  should  tell 
Sir  Oliver  of  this  strange  freak  of  Mrs.  Trant^s,  and  her 
mysterious  subordination  of  the  groom.  But  it  was  a 
strange  tale  to  tell,  and  how  would  Sir  Oliver  take  it? 
How  could  the  unhappy  subject  of  what  looked  very  like 
necromancy  be  preserved  from  the  anger  of  the  man  of 
whom  he  had,  however  unconsciously,  told  so  preposterous 
a  lie?  She  herself  felt  much  more  pity  than  blame  for 
John  Rackham;  but  how  could  she  rely  upon  it  that 
indignation  against  the  curious  result  of  Mrs.  Trant's 
manipulations  might  not  get  the  better,  in  her  lover,  of 
amusement  at  its  absurdity? 

But  of  one  thing  she  felt  very  sure,  that  the  better 
himaour  she  could  get  his  lordship  in  with  herself,  the 
easier  would  it  be  to  talk  to  him  about  this  fantastical 
business,  without  fear  of  his  taking  what  she  supposed  to 
be  the  merest  dream-chatter  otherwise  than  as  a  jest. 
So  that  evening  she  was  at  great  pains  to  be  at  her 
loveliest,  that  she  might  cajole  him  and  hold  him,  as  it 
were,  under  a  spell,  to  listen  to  her  story  without 
impatience  at  the  part  he  himself  was  made  to  play 
in  it. 

She  was  wisely  at  odds  with  the  women  of  her  time, 
who,  after  a  few  years  of  liberation  from  the  preposterous 
farthingales  and  cramped  coiffures  of  their  predecessors, 
seemed  like  to  go  back  to  them,  it  may  be  from  the  exam- 
ple of  the  late-married  queen  and  her  ladies  of  Portugal. 


224  AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

The  loose  flowing  gown  and  hair  held  simply  by  a  string 
of  pearls,  celebrated  in  the  songs  of  poets  of  the  time, 
and  shown  in  the  paintings  of  its  artists,  made  up,  with 
a  touch  of  informality  all  her  own,  the  wardrobe  of 
Lucinda.  But  even  in  the  simplest  outward  seeming  of 
a  woman's  dress  there  is  much  to  choose  in  the  manner  of 
it;  as  few  notes  may  make  music,  or  jar  upon  the  hearer, 
according  to  his  skill  who  arranges  them. 

So  that  whoever  reads  this  may  take  it  as  honest  truth 
that  Lucinda,  who  would  have  looked  surpassingly  beau- 
tiful even  though  her  robe  had  been  plain  grogram,  like 
that  of  Dame  Hatsell,  lost  nothing  by  the  simple  rich 
clinging  of  its  silk  brocade  about  her  form — pliable  to 
a  miracle — ^glittering  with  a  hundred  mysterious  sheens. 
Nor  by  the  rope  of  pearls  Mrs.  Trant  had  disposed  so 
cunningly,  a  snake  acreep  in  a  thicket  of  sweet  hair,  black 
as  the  jet  of  her  own  magic  mirror. 

Sir  Oliver  was  gracious  enough,  passing  his  mistress 
as  it  were  in  review ;  admitting,  but  critically,  her  beauty. 
That  was  his  natural  tone,  and  the  one  Lucinda  best 
loved  in  him.  His  artificial  one,  of  effusive  compliment, 
was  in  abeyance  this  evening,  and  this  made  her  all  the 
happier.  "  Thou  hast  thy  pearls  on  to-night,  sweet  Lucy, 
I  see,"  said  he.  Arid  she  answered :  "  Ay — ^the  pearls," 
and  kissed  him.  "  And  the  ring  with  brilliants  ?  "  said  he. 
"  Why,  surely ! — surely !  "  said  she,  and  made  believe  to 
strike  his  face  with  her  flat  hand,  then  kissed  him  again. 
For  this  ring  was  one  she  always  wore. 

Susan  Trant's  eye  was  on  this,  and  had  no  good-will 
in  it  for  either  of  the  two.  She  went  away  to  the  kitchen, 
and  there  her  mother,  in  a  fit  of  hearing,  caught  her 
mocking  Lucinda's  speech,  and  thinking  it  truly  her 
voice — for,  indeed,  it  was  a  clever  fetch — ^would  have  it 


AlSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  225 

that  her  ladyship  had  spoken.     But  it  was  her  daughter, 
mocking  her  speech :  "  Surely — Oliver — surely !  " 

"  Shall  I  sing  thee  all  the  ballad  again,  sweet  Oliver, 
of  the  man  behind  the  wainscot,  and  how  he  slew  the 
father  of  his  ladylove  ?  "  So  said  Lucinda,  after  supper, 
at  the  spinet. 

"  I  do  not  like  the  tune  of  it.  Sing  to  me  rather,  sweet 
Lucy,'  of  thy  starry  eyes,  thy  lips  that  seem  on  roses 
fed."  So  said  Oliver,  in  all  the  enjoyment  of  his  Vir- 
ginian tobacco.  He  spoke  of  a  song  whose  author's  name 
is  now  lost,  but  he  could  have  told  it  then,  perhaps ;  though 
even  then  it  was  an  old  song. 

This  song  Lucinda  sang.  But  as  she  sang,  a  thought 
crossed  her  mind.  Had  it  not  been  heartless  in  her, 
when  she  spoke  so  freely  of  the  ballad  that  Oliver — it 
seemed — had  no  fancy  for,  to  miss  remembering  that  it 
was  just  upon  her  first  singing  of  it  that  he  had  fallen 
stricken  in  that  terrible  convulsion?  What  wonder  that 
he  should  hate  the  tune  of  it?  l^ever  mind! — she  would 
make  it  up  to  him.  She  went  when  the  song  was  done, 
and  sat  beside  him  as  he  lay  on  a  couch  he  favoured  for 
laziness  after  meals.  She  lapped  him  in  the  sweetness  of 
her  young  life,  caressed  his  wicked  head  with  her  sweet, 
guiltless  hands,  called  him,  the  darkness  of  whose  heart 
outwent  all  evil  she  had  knowledge  of,  her  treasure  and 
delight.  And  he,  for  his  part,  while  he  took  her  tribute 
as  his  due,  felt  anew  that  old  uneasiness  lest  the  tale  of 
her  father's  death  should  reach  her  before  he  had  eaten 
his  fill  of  this  feast,  and  wearied  of  it.  For  how  could 
he  be  deaf  to  the  voice  of  his  under-thought,  that  said 
to  him,  hour  by  hour :  "  Search  the  foul  records  of  your 
life  in  vain  for  a  girl  like  this "  ?    It  had  come  upon 


226  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

him  slowly — the  thing  called  Love.  It  is  a  thing  he 
and  his  like  know  naught  of; — a  thing  they  can  never 
know  but  by  a  chance.  But  none  take  licence  more  freely 
than  they  to  use  the  sacred  word — the  word  whose  very 
utterance  by  them  is  blasphemy. 

Had  it  not  been  for  this  abnormal  growth  in  the  desert 
of  his  soul,  how  should  he  have  cared  to  prolong  his 
retirement  from  the  glare  and  dazzle  of  the  world  of  town 
— all  the  delights  of  the  dicebox  and  the  card-table — of 
a  drama  congenial  to  impious  wit  and  debauched  sense — • 
of  the  delirious  worship  of  a  bedaubed  Venus,  a  goddess 
of  paint  and  patches?  Why  should  he,  predominant 
among  Wits,  self-styled,  a  man  of  note  for  his  profligacy 
in  the  world  of  profligates — ^why  should  he  make  surrender 
of  himself  to  solitude  in  this  monotonous,  outlandish 
exile?  The  reason  had  never  been  plainer  to  him  than 
this  evening,  as  he  felt — or  at  least  made  his  first  acknowl- 
edgment of  feeling — the  full  extent  of  Lucinda^s  power 
over  him.  She  had  crept  unawares  into  the  heart  of  his 
being,  and  wrapped  him  round  with  the  enchantment 
some  never  know  but  in  the  creatures  of  a  dream.  And 
yet,  so  apt  was  he  in  the  knowledge  of  his  own  wickedness, 
that  he  could  still  forecast  the  day  when  he  would  fling 
aside  as  worthless  the  thing  he  had  possessed ;  would  let 
the  dish  he  had  enjoyed  the  best  of  be  removed,  for  whoso 
would  to  finish.  But  this  was  only  the  voice  of  his  ex- 
perience. The  banquet  had  not  palled,  as  yet.  Cer- 
tainly not  yet,  this  evening  when  he  could  lie  there, 
puffing  his  tobacco,  closing  his  eyes  to  rejoice  in  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  hands  at  their  best,  as  they  caressed  the  locks 
of  hair  they  were  so  proud  of.  For  in  this  solitude,  afar 
from  Courts  and  modish  devices,  men's  periwigs  were  cast 
aside ;  and  Oliver,  moved  by  his  mistress's  wish,  had  left 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOISTOR  227 

his  head  to  its  natural  covering,  and  Lucinda  watched 
each  new  growth  of  it  daily. 

"  Thou  wilt  never  need  to  wear  a  wig,  vain  Oliver," 
said  she,  "with  such  a  crop  as  this.''  And  her  laugh 
rang  through  the  empty  house,  and  reached  even  to  Susan 
Trant  in  her  kitchen. 

"  She  has  not  told  her  tale  yet,  mother,"  said  Susan, 
working  silently  on  her  pillow-lace.  Dame  Hatsell 
answered :  "  What  is  that  to  thee,  daughter  ?  She  will 
tell  it  him  in  the  night,  when  none  hears."  And  Susan 
replied :  "  He  never  wakes  to  talk,  in  the  night."  But 
her  look  was  that  of  the  assassin  who  thinks  in  peace 
of  the  dagger  he  knows  he  can  use  to-morrow;  or  of 
one  who  watches  for  the  action  of  a  poison  he  has  used 
before. 

But  in  the  room  above  Lucinda  is  making  much,  with 
caress  and  jest,  of  the  handsome  head  that  lies,  nothing 
loth,  upon  her  bosom.  And  there  the  idle  chatter  goes 
on  thus: 

"  The  less  need  to  carry  a  pocket-glass,  my  Lucy !  " 

"  How  a  pocket-glass  ?  " 

"  Every  spruce  coxcomb  nowadays  has  his  pocket- 
mirror,  to  comb  his  artificial  locks  out.  Thou  shalt  see 
them  combing  them  out  in  the  playhouse;  for  'tis  the 
fashion  nowadays  to  do  so." 

"  Shall  I  go  to  the  playhouse  then,  when  we  go  to 
London?" 

"  Sure  enough — in  a  little  black  mask.  That  is  how 
a  lady  goes  to  such  like  places,  if  she  be  of  repute." 

"  Am  I  of  repute,  Oliver  mine  ?  Truly,  I  would  soonest 
keep  away  from  places  where  I  may  not  show  my  face 
like  an  honest  woman." 

"  'Tis  for  the  sake  of  the  men,  my  Lucy.     But  I  pity 


228  a:^  affair  of  dishonoe 

the  youth  that  sees  thine  eyes  for  the  first  time  through 
a  mask.    'Tis  an  added  sting,  to  my  thought." 

"  A  saucy  boy !  Let  him  mind  his  business  and  take 
note  of  the  players." 

"  What — ^my  mistress ! — all  in  a  taking  about  a  young 
Corydon  that  may  never  see  thee.  Or,  if  he  do,  he  may 
be  more  in  a  mind  for  Daphne,  or  for  Phyllis.    ..." 

"  Now  ^e  upon  thee  for  shame,  Oliver !  To  promise 
me  a  young  beau  for  a  lover,  and  then  to  jilt  me  thus! 
But  I'll  none  of  him.  His  Daphne  and  his  Phyllis  may 
fight  for  which  shall  have  him — and  either  may,  for  aught 
I  care.  ^  Corydon,'  indeed !  "  JSTow,  as  Lucinda  said  this 
she  sat  encircling  her  lover's  head,  as  it  lay  on  her  lap, 
with  her  white  hands  and  arms,  or  making  as  though  she 
would  adjust  some  defect  of  his  face  at  her  pleasure. 
For  she  was,  as  her  brother  had  said,  besotted  about  this 
man,  and  all  her  joy  was  in  his  presence.  And  he,  for 
his  part,  took  her  worship  of  him  as  his  due;  although, 
as  we  have  seen,  his  vanity  and  selfhood  rose  in  revolt 
against  the  growth  of  her  sweet  power,  even  while  he 
could  not  but  luxuriate  in  its  light  and  warmth. 

Then  says  Lucinda  to  him :  "  What  makes  thee  cry 
out  upon  my  song  of  Lady  Joan  and  Lord  Ferrers  of  the 
Dyke,  Oliver  Hard-to-please  ? "  For  so  happy  was  she 
in  this  unguarded  laughter-moment,  that  she  must  needs 
again  forget  the  ill-flavour  this  song's  name  would  have 
for  Oliver.  And  thereto  she  sang  the  quaint  short  phrase 
with  a  twist  in  it,  that  is  the  life  of  the  strange  little 
air. 

"  There  lies  the  reason  of  it !  "  says  Sir  Oliver.  "  'Tis 
that  very  same  flimsy  lilt,  a  bit  of  musical  jargon  at  the 
best,  that  gets  upon  the  drum  o'  the  ear  and  won't  begone. 
iWhy! — whom  do  you  think  I  heard  a-singing  of  it,  that 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOjSTOE  229 

never  sang  a  song  in  his  life  before  that  I  ever  heard  tell 
of  ?    Now  guess." 

Lucinda  thought  and  thought,  but  could  not  guess  for 
want  of  men  about  the  house  to  father  the  tale  on.  Then 
she  tried  the  fisher  folk.  ^'  J^ot  Keuben  nor  Ben  Thur- 
kill  ?  "  said  she.  "  They  have  never  been  near  enough 
to  hear  me  sing.  Besides,  they  will  sing  themselves  over 
their  net-mending  by  the  hour." 

"  Think  again,  Lucy  mine !  Think  well  round  the 
house,  upstairs  and  down.  .  .  .  Ho,  ho ! — hast  thou  got 
him  at  last  ? "  For  Lucinda's  gaze  of  perplexity  at  Sir 
Oliver's  face,  with  a  chuckle  to  come  in  it,  ends  in  a 
sudden  irresistible  laugh. 

"  Not  John  Kackham,  Oliver !  ISTever  John  Kackham !  " 
'All  her  speech  is  broken  with  her  laughter  at  the  notion 
of  the  groom  singing.  "  Why — ^how  came  you  to  know 
Fhat  tune  he  meant  to  sing  ?  " 

^^  By  the  words,  fairest  Lucy — ^by  the  words.  Else 
might  I  have  been  at  a  loss  to  be  sure  of  the  tune.  In- 
deed, as  I  judge,  he  would  sing  but  one  tune  in  any  case, 
and  that  mostly  one  note  and  no  more.  But  for  the  words, 
he  is  bound  by  the  book,  and  I  can  tell  thee  this,  wench 
— 'twas  thy  song  and  no  other,  concerning  of  the  girl  that 
hid  her  lover  in  a  basket.    ..." 

"  Out  upon  thee,  Oliver !  'Twas  not  in  a  basket,  but 
behind  the  wainscot,  with  room  for  all  his  limbs,  only  his 
sword  was  hard  to  pack  in.  ..."  But  then  Lucinda 
stopped  a  few  moments,  and  when  she  spoke  next, 
thought  was  in  her  voice.  "  But  did  John  Rackham 
know  all  that  song? — even  to  the  drawn  swords  and  the 
blood?" 

"  I  know  not  of  the  drawn  swords  and  the  blood,  but 
he  knew  many  a  verse."     Then  Sir  Oliver,  ill  at  ease, 


230  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

made  a  show  of  remembering  suddenly  a  thing  his 
memory  had  not  really  let  slip.  "  Ay,  to  be  sure,  I  have 
it  now — the  two  of  them  came  to  question.  Two  lovers 
of  one  maid,  were  they  not  ?  ^' 

"  No,  no ! — it  was  her  father,  inattentive  man !  No 
lover  at  all !  .  .  . "  But  Lucinda  was  in  a  maze  of  pre- 
occupation by  some  new  thought,  and  said  no  more, 
sitting  still  with  her  lover^s  head  in  keeping  in  her  lap — 
for  he  had  put  aside  a  finished  pipe — and  turning  round 
in  her  mind  the  thing  that  had  arrested  her.  Then  quite 
of  a  sudden  she  outs  with :  "  I  care  not,  Oliver  mine — I 
will  tell  thee,  and  be  thought  a  fool  for  my  pains  at  the 
worst !  " 

"  Highty-tighty,  wench ! — ^what's  all  the  to-do  ?  Why 
such  a  long  face  ?  Has  Master  Rackham — ^ho,  ho ! — 
been  making  love  to  thee?  "  l^oiv,  this  seemed  to  amuse 
Sir  Oliver  mightily. 

"  Have  your  laugh  out,  silly  Oliver ! — thou  art  just  no 
better  than  a  boy.  But  when  you  have  done,  I  will  tell 
my  story,  and  you  may  call  me  fool  outright." 

IsTow  the  thought  that  had  crossed  Lucinda's  mind, 
making  her  at  her  ease  about  her  tale  of  Mrs.  Trant^s 
tricks  on  John  Rackham,  and  resolving  her  on  the  telling 
of  it  forthwith,  was  just  this: — that  sure  enough  she 
now  knew  what  was  the  source  and  origin  of  all  this  crazy 
dream  of  the  bewitched  man.  What  could  be  more  cer- 
tain? His  disordered  brain  had  fitted  all  the  ballad's 
intent  and  action  to  the  persons  nearest  about  him.  Any 
two  lovers  would  have  served  his  turn,  but  she  and  Sir 
Oliver  were  readiest  to  hand.  And  see  how  a  hundred 
things,  all  within  Rackham's  knowledge,  lent  themselves 
to  the  fostering  of  his  craze.  Foremost  of  all,  her  father's 
swordsmanship — why,  he  was,  as  her  brother  had  said, 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  231 

famous  for  it!  And,  for  all  that  a  vulgar  mind  such  as 
Rackham's  could  know,  what  was  there  in  her  relations 
with  Oliver  so  unlike  those  of  the  lawless  couple  in  the 
ballad  ?  What  could  he  know  of  the  solemn  pledges  that 
had  clothed  her  compliance  with  her  lover's  petitions  with 
all  the  sacramental  character  of  the  altar  itself?  Alas, 
for  poor  Lucinda! — she  little  knew  how  freely  pledges 
come  from  men  who  know  that  Law  will  support,  and 
Society  excuse,  the  breach  of  covenants  made  in  disregard 
of  their  accepted  formulas. 

But  this  does  not  concern  us  now,  though  it  passed 
through  Lucinda's  thought  as  she  pictured  for  the  moment 
Rackham's  version  of  her  love  and  Oliver's.  Of  course, 
such  a  version  would  fit  the  ballad.  His  waking  dream 
was  as  natural  as  any  sleeping  dream  would  have  been. 
She  might  have  dreamed  such  a  one  herself,  and  waked 
in  terror. 

So,  as  she  sat  there  nursing  Sir  Oliver's  handsome  head 
— for  none  could  gainsay  his  outward  beauty — and  making 
believe  to  retouch  and  improve  it  as  a  sculptor  might, 
she  had  no  thought  of  backing  out  of  the  telling  of  her 
tale,  but  only  a  doubt  of  how  she  should  accommodate 
its  strangeness  to  the  understanding  of  her  hearer.  And 
as  for  him,  he  was,  to  say  the  truth,  but  little  concerned 
to  know  this  tale  of  hers  as  he  lay  enjoying  the  sweet 
touch  of  her  hands  about  his  wicked  head,  letting  her 
sweet  voice  soak  into  his  false  heart — ^more  and  more 
overpowered;  in  short,  by  this  strange  witchery  of  a  till- 
then-unknown  phase  or  version  of  Love.  Language  halts 
and  goes  lame  in  the  telling  of  it,  but  it  was  with  him  as 
though  some  Oread,  the  captive  of  a  wandering  Satyr  of 
the  woods,  had  decoyed  her  captor  into  a  Temple  of  the 
God  Himself,  and  held  to  his  lips  a  nectar  cup,  that  he 


232  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE 

might  pour  a  libation  at  an  unaccustomed  shrine.  And 
jet,  to  meet  her  fancy,  ratlier  than  from  any  curiosity  of 
his  own,  he  would  not  leave  her  without  encouragement. 

"  What's  t^  y  story,  Lucy  mine  ?  I  will  not  call  thee 
a  fool  for  nothing,  trust  me !  Tell  it  out  roundly !  "  Oh, 
had  he  but  known  what  it  would  be — he,  lapped  in  all 
his  false  security — ^more  and  more  intoxicated  with  his 
new-found  nectar! 

"  It  would  serve  thee  but  right  if  I  told  thee  nothing, 
Oliver  mine,"  says  she.  But  he  is  forgiven,  for  she  bends 
over  the  handsome  wicked  face  with  a  long  kiss,  then 
goes  on :  ''  But  listen !  'Tis  a  tale  of  witchcraft,  and 
Trant  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.'' 

"Oho!— is  that  it?  What  devil  is  in  it,  this  time? 
ApoUyon — or  Ashtaroth  ?  "  Sir  Oliver  is  scoffing,  but  his 
attention  is  roused,  for  all  that. 

"  Nay,  I  know  not.  Maybe  both !  She  has  bewitched 
John  Rackham,  and  now  she  can  make  him  do  her  will. 
.  .  .  Oh,  but  you  would  laugh  to  see  the  power  she  can 
put  upon  him  to  make  him  close  his  eyes,  and  the  much 
ado  he  has  to  open  them.  Nay — ^he  cannot,  try  how  he 
may!" 

*^  A  pitiful  small  triumph  for  the  black  art  of  a  witch 
in  league  with  the  Devil!  If  she  could  force  John  Rack- 
ham  to  open  his  mouth  now!  .  .  .  there  would  be  a 
thing  to  raise  the  Devil  for.  But — just  to  close  his 
eyes !  "  And  Oliver  laughed  out,  and  would  turn  it  all 
to  a  jest. 

But  Lucinda  had  no  mind  to  be  thwarted  of  her  tale, 
and  clapped  her  hand  on  his  mouth  to  bring  him  to  silence, 
also  bidding  him  be  serious,  for  that  it  was  a  thing  she, 
for  one,  could  make  neither  head  nor  tail  of.  Thereupon 
he  kissed  the  palm  of  her  hand  within,  but  said,  though 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^^OE  233 

with  less  of  derision :  "  They  are  making  a  fool  of  thee, 
silly  Lucy.  'Tis  a  plot  of  conspiracy,  and  a  mighty  easy 
one  for  any  pair  of  knaves.  Take  my  word  for  it,  Master 
Kackham  will  open  his  eyes  fast  enough  if  he  hears  my 
voice.  I  wager  the  DeviFs  imps  won't  wait  for  my  com- 
ing.    No,  no ! '' 

'^  I  doubt  if  either  the  Devil  or  his  imps  have  any  hand 
in  the  matter,"  said  Lucinda,  but  seriously.  "May  not 
this  thing  and  its  like  be  some  mere  freak  and  folly  of 
Is'ature,  that  chances  once,  and  there  an  end  ?  " 

Sir  Oliver's  air  was  that  of  one  who  weighs  for  its  worth 
the  thought  of  a  lesser  mind,  and  can  concede  it  some 
applause.  "  A  shrewd  guess,  for  a  wench,"  said  he. 
"  There  be  cases  of  a  like  sort.  Get  on  with  thy  tale, 
sweet  Lucy."  And  then  he  made  as  though  he  would 
bite  off  with  his  teeth  her  little  finger-tip,  and  she,  for 
her  part,  was  all  indulgent  of  his  smallest  whim.  But 
she  was  clear  now  in  her  intent  to  tell  this  affair  of  Trant 
and  John  Rackham,  thinking  it  plain  enough  that  all  this 
preposterous  dream  of  the  groom's  was  a  mere  fetch,  and 
as  foundationless  as  he  himself  said  it  was. 

"  What  will  you  say  of  it  all,  I  wonder  now,  wise 
Oliver?" 

"  I  can  say  nothing  till  thou  hast  told  thy  tale,  Mistress 
Slowspeech." 

"Why — ^you  saw  Rackham  but  last  night.   ..." 
"  What   of  last   night  ?     The   knave   was   drunk,  my 
Lucy!     Why — ^he  will  swill  ale  by  the  hogshead,  as  lief 
as  not." 

"  There  was  no  ale  in  this  case,  Oliver." 
"  Mighty  little  witchcraft,  simple  Lucy !  " 
"  Must  I  hold  thy  mouth  shut,  to  keep  thee  quiet  ? 
[Now  listen.     When  I  charged  Trant  this  morning  to  tell 


234  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHO:NrOE 

me  honest  truth  of  what  she  knew,  she  would  have  it 
Rackham  was  no  dronkelew,  no  more  than  reason,  as  all 
men  are.  But  last  night  least  of  all,  seeing  she  had  per- 
suaded him  that  if  he  would  forswear  food  and  drink  but 
for  one  day,  it  being  Lammas-tide.   ..." 

"  Lammas  Day  is  a  feast,  and  no  fast.    ..." 

"  Keep  thy  mouth  shut,  silly  1  The  more  the  feast, 
the  more  the  merit  of  him  who  fasts.  'Tis  easy  to  fast 
when  all  fast  alike.  Dost  thou  not  see  that  this  was  all 
a  practice  of  Trant's,  to  make  a  great  seeming  of  a  simple 
trick  she  was  minded  to  play  on  Rackham,  just  to  pay 
him  out  for  his  dogged  silence  about  .  .  .  about  things 
he  could  tell  if  he  chose.  .  .  .  Keep  thy  mouth  shut, 
silly  Oliver,  and  listen ! — 'twas  no  harm,  what  she  sought 
to  know — only  my  father's  name  and  mine.   ..." 

For  Sir  Oliver  had  begun  to  ask  who  had  given  Mrs. 
Trant  leave  to  pry  into  what  concerned  her  not — a  by- 
word in  reproof  of  Mrs.  Trant,  and  no  more.  He  went 
on :  "  But  the  trick — the  simple  trick — what  of  it  ?  " 

"I  only  tell  thee,  love,  what  she  told  me."  So  said 
Lucinda,  and  then  went  on  to  report  what  the  tale  already 
knows  concerning  the  spell  cast  upon  Rackham,  and  the 
seeming  simple  means  used  for  its  attainment.  Sir  Oliver 
honoured  her  narration  now  and  again  with  a  grunt  of 
incredulity,  and  would  have  spoken  once  or  oftener,  but 
Lucinda  each  time  clapt  her  hand  on  his  mouth,  and  bade 
him  be  silent  till  she  should  finish. 

INow  the  part  she  least  relished  the  telling  of — although, 
indeed,  she  really  thought  it  no  more  than  a  mad  dream 
— ^was  the  substance  of  Rackham's  narrative  of  the  duel, 
and  the  return  home.  So  what  between  her  slurring  of  it 
over,  and  Sir  Oliver's  growing  itch  to  pooh-pooh  the 
whole  thing,  the  tale  hung  fire,  or  was  lost  in  her  dis- 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  235 

claimers  of  any  sense  or  coherency  in  the  ramblings  of  the 
bewitched  man  when  most  completely  under  the  strange 
influence.  For  what  she  herself  was  seeking  to  tell  Oliver 
was  the  story  of  Mrs.  Trant's  curious  power  over  Rack- 
ham,  and  the  strange  practice  by  which  she  had  attained 
it,  rather  than  the  fantastic  delusion  it  had  produced  in 
its  subject  or  victim.  So  she  laid  a  great  over-stress  upon 
the  incoherency  of  his  story,  that  an  exaggeration  of  it 
might  frank  her  of  the  telling  of  a  tale  she  would  have 
felt  shame  to  repeat.  After  all,  the  gist  of  the  matter 
was,  not  the  rubbish  talked  by  the  person  thus  oddly 
affected,  but  the  strange  way  in  which  his  affection  came 
about. 

Oliver,  for  his  part,  though  he  had  not  been  without 
misgiving  that  Rackham  might  break  loose  one  day  in 
some  Bacchanalian  moment,  conceived  that  this  time, 
witchcraft  or  no,  he  had  kept  all  his  wits  and  his  counsel, 
and  held  his  tongue  on  all  matters  in  which  an  indis- 
cretion would  not  only  have  lost  him  his  situation,  but 
procured  him  a  sound  horse-whipping  into  the  bargain. 
For  surely,  had  Lucinda  heard  aught  of  the  story  of  the 
duel,  it  would  have  been  her  first  thing  to  speak  of,  not 
all  this  rhodomontade  of  silly  necromancies.  So  he  felt 
little  misgiving  in  seeking  to  know  somewhat  of  the  dis- 
jointed words  she  said  had  come  from  Rackham  in  his 
dream — too  disjointed  and  ill-articulate  for  her  to  make 
sense  of  it,  so  she  said,  on  any  terms. 

"  And  what  more  had  my  drunken  knave  to  tell,  beyond 
thine  own  maiden  name,  my  Lucy  ? " 

But  Lucinda  was  backward  to  answer,  for  the  sound  of 
his  speech  jarred  on  her  heart.  "  'Tis  my  name  still,  of 
right,  sweetheart,''  said  she.  "  Until  my  dear  lord's  is 
mine  of  right,"  she  added. 


236  AN^  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOISrOR 

"  My  heart  is  thine,  love,"  said  he.  "  And  what 
woidd  you  more  ?  "  And  his  voice  rang  so  true,  for  once, 
that  tears  of  joy  were  in  Lucinda's  eyes  at  the  hearing 
of  it  She  fairly  buried  his  face  in  the  kisses  she  gave 
him — closed  his  wicked  eyes  with,  stilled  his  wicked  lips. 
Wicked  despite  of  all,  for  he  was  but  an  outside  stranger, 
a  lawless  trespasser,  in  the  Temple  of  Love,  the  real  God 
who  has  but  one  name.  Yet  so  intoxicated  was  he,  as  it 
were,  with  the  incense  fumes  at  the  altar,  that  a  thought 
took  form  in  his  mind  on  Lucinda's  behalf.  "  I  would,'' 
said  he,  "  that  my  Lady,  whom  the  Devil  fly  away  with, 
were  not  so  damnably  virtuous.  If  only  she  had  it  in 
her  to  tickle  the  fancy  of  our  sweet  King  Charles !  The 
chance  of  a  coronet  carries  the  outworks  of  virtue.  But 
she  is  scraggy,  at  best,  and  her  lips  are  tight  on  her  teeth. 
So  'tis  hopeless !  " 

"  Now  let  the  poor  lady  be !  "  said  Lucinda,  and  the 
music  of  her  laughter  rang  through  the  house,  and  reached 
Susan  Trant,  on  the  watch  in  the  kitchen.  "  You  married 
her  yourself,  silly  Oliver — ^you  married  her  yourself! 
Now  talk  of  John  Rackham  and  his  plight.  What  can 
you  make  of  it,  at  the  best?'' 

"  Faith — ^nothing !  'Tis  as  you  said  but  now,  a  freak 
of  Nature." 

Then  Susan  Trant,  in  the  kitchen,  hearing  the  laughter, 
says  to  her  mother :  "  She  has  not  told  him.  She  will  not 
tell  him  to-night."  So  she  rises  from  her  lace-work,  and 
her  mother  does  the  like  from  her  needlework,  for  the 
hour  is  very  late.  But  a  little  time  passes  while  each 
collects  wandering  reels,  rewinds  disordered  skeins,  and 
makes  all  safe  for  the  night.  Then  both  together  are  on 
their  way  to  the  garret  in  the  roof,  where  they  sleep.    No 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO:^rOR  237 

other  servant  slept  in  the  house  at  this  time;  nor  at  any 
time  in  this  part  of  it,  when  service  from  without  was 
insufficient  for  the  household. 

The  rain-drift  that  has  lasted  on,  with  scarcely  a  lull, 
through  the  whole  day,  is  breaking  into  loose  cloud-rack, 
scouring  across  a  new  blue  heaven,  queened  by  a  great 
full-moon.  The  vapour-veils  are  swift  to  come  and  go, 
and  the  silver  light  comes  and  vanishes  apace  through 
the  high  window  on  the  stair  as  the  two  pass  up  it,  saying 
never  a  word,  and  only  one  of  them  hearing  the  voices 
still  continuing  beyond  the  door  they  will  pass  directly, 
there  on  the  first  landing  just  above.  Dame  Hatsell,  who 
hears  nothing — she  has  been  this  evening  deafer  than  ever 
— passes  on  unheeding.  Her  daughter  remains  listening, 
still  as  a  motionless  snake.  One  hand  holds  the  blown- 
out  taper  the  moon  makes  needless,  the  fingers  of  the 
other  are  on  her  mouth,  as  though  her  silence  were  some- 
how insecure  in  her  own  keeping.  She  can  only  hear 
chance  words — something  of  a  dream  of  his  mother — 
nothing  she  can  piece  up  to  coherency.  Her  eyes  have  a 
cruel  gleam  in  the  moonlight,  as  of  joyous  anticipation  of 
ill-hap  befalling  someone  else. 

Has  she  caught  some  change  in  the  manner  of  the 
speakers,  that  listening  should  quicken  her  expectancy 
of  something  just  at  hand — be  fraught  with  more  im- 
patience? Yes!  Voices  raised — interchange  of  speech 
abrupt  and  sudden;  then  again  a  hushing  of  the  voices, 
as  in  greater  concord.  Then  a  kind  of  laugh  from  the 
man,  not  over  gleeful,  followed  by  continued  speech  of 
the  woman;  a  sudden  interruption,  and  a  cry.  Then  the 
voices  of  both,  broken,  spasmodic,  beseeching;  and  in  the 
end  the  man's  voice  alone  in  the  silence,  speaking 
earnestly. 


238  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

How  long  will  he  speak  thus  ?  A  little  more — a  little 
more — and  then  the  woman's  voice,  but  strained  and  un- 
earthly, followed  by  a  cry  and  a  long  silence.  And  then, 
without  forewarning  or  seeming  cause,  a  sudden  piercing 
shriek,  the  woman's  voice  again,  and  his.  But  this  time 
Susan  Trant  can  catch  a  word  she  says.  She  says  it  again 
and  again.    What  is  it  ?    "  Murderer !  " 

At  that  word  the  listener  at  the  door  laughed  a  laugh 
that  scarcely  gave  a  sound;  then,  waiting  to  hear  no 
more,  passed  on  light-footed  to  the  upper  stair-flight  and 
got  away. 

On  the  landing  old  Mrs.  Hatsell  met  her  daughter. 
^'  Who  called  ?  "  said  she.  A  headshake  in  reply  meant, 
^*  None  called '' ;  a  warning  finger  was  a  caution  of  si- 
lence. Then  Mrs.  Trant  drew  her  mother  with  her  to 
their  bedroom,  full  of  the  white  moonlight,  and,  closing 
the  door,  spoke  loud  in  her  ear.  "  She  has  told  him," 
cried  she.  And  her  voice  had  all  the  glee  of  her  heart 
in  it. 

The  old  woman's  hearing  was  capricious.  For  a  sound 
l)elow,  much  like  the  fall  of  some  heavy  body,  causing 
breakage  of  glass  or  chinaware,  was  plain  to  her,  although 
a  scream  the  fisherfolk  might  have  heard  a  mile  away  had 
seemed  no  more  than  a  mere  summons.  She  spoke  to  her 
daughter,  saying,  "  That  is  the  master's  fall,  in  one  of  his 
takings." 

But  Susan  Trant  laughed  a  cool,  ugly  laugh  beneath  her 
breath,  saying  in  an  undertone,  "  What  if  it  were  ?  "  But 
to  her  mother  she  said  aloud,  "  'Tis  no  such  thing !  'Tis 
the  hound  Zorra  that  bays  the  moon."  And  the  old  dame 
believed  her,  for  she  had  learned  by  long  experience  how 
her  hearing  might  cheat  her,  and  would  often  take  her 
daughter's  word  against  her  own  judgment. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  239 

Go  back  now  to  Lucy  and  Oliver,  and  mark  what  came 
to  pass  since  the  story's  last  word  about  them. 

"  '  A  freak  of  Nature/  "  said  Lucinda,  echoing  Oliver's 
speech.  ^^  Ay,  truly! — but  a  freak  that  uses  little  scraps 
of  sound  sense  to  the  end  of  madness,  a  touch  here  and 
a  touch  there — all  else  in  confusion !  But,  then,  a  dream 
has  sense  and  nonsense  mixed — a  common  dream  of  the 
night.   .    .    .'' 

Oliver  broke  in  with  a  laugh.  "  Faith,  and  that  is 
true  too!  I  could  tell  thee  a  dream  I  dreamed,  not  so 
long  since.  ..."  But  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  went 
off  to  something  else,  saying,  ''  You  said,  as  I  thought, 
that  Rackham's  speech  was  but  gibberish,  all  mad  out- 
right ? " 

"  I  did  not  mean  that.  I  should  have  said,  belike,  that 
all  the  substance  of  his  tale  was  mad,  though  he  spoke  it, 
plain  enough.  .  .  .  But  tell  me  thy  dream,  sweet 
Oliver.'' 

Now  Sir  Oliver  had  begun  to  speak  of  this  dream — 
which  was  that  unholy  dream  of  his  mother's  ghost, 
whereof  the  reader  knows — recalling  only  the  strangeness 
of  it,  and  forgetful  of  the  many  links  it  had  with  what  he 
had  least  wish  to  speak  of  of  all  things,  to  Lucinda  of  all 
people.  A  moment's  thought  brought  repentance  of  his 
word  in  haste,  and  now  he  would  have  unsaid  it.  But 
what  shift  was  open  to  him  ?  To  swear  he  had  forgotten 
it?  Absurd!  He  might  have  devised  some  other  dream, 
to  serve  as  well,  with  a  quick  wit.  But,  as  it  chanced,  no 
such  expedient  crossed  his  mind.  And  what  need  was 
there  either  to  say  anything  of  the  time  of  it,  or  its  asso- 
ciations for  him? 

"  'Od's  bodikins !  "  said  he  at  length,  with  an  ill-at-ease 
laugh.     "  Can  I  be  sure  to  recollect  it  right  ?     What 


240  'AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

was  it  ?  There  was  my  mother,  a-walking  on  the  Terrace 
with  her  head  wrapped  up,  and  there  was  a  fountain, 
and  fish  in  the  basin,  and  one  of  them  had  John  Eack- 
ham's  head  on.  .  .  .  j^o,  my  Lucy,  I  am  not  making 
it  up.  'Tis  true! — I  swear  it.''  But,  said  Lucinda 
then,  this  dream  was  mad  all  through;  where  was  the 
touch  of  sense  in  it  ?  "  Stop  one  moment,"  says  Oli- 
ver, "  while  I  tell  thee.  Sense  enough  in  all  the  garden 
round.  'Twas  the  Box  Walk  at  the  New  Hall — thou 
knowest  ? " 

"  Ay — I  know  it  well." 

"  This  Bedlam  fountain  had  grown  in  the  night — ^for  I 
had  been  there  but  the  day  before — just  at  the  garden 
end,  there  where  a  little  door  went  to  the  stable-yard, 
that  never  was  opened.   ..." 

"  Oh,  but  it  was  opened,  Oliver  mine !  Else  how  could 
you  have  passed  through?" 

"  What  does  the  wench  mean  ?  "  said  Oliver  sharply. 
And  well  might  he  ask !  For  Lucinda's  words  came  of  a 
heedless  forgetting,  not  unlike  his  own  when  his  tongue 
pitched  upon  this  dream.  She  knew  naught  of  this 
garden  door  but  from  the  tale  of  the  duel,  told  that  day  by 
John  E-ackham.  But  the  words  had  passed  her  lips  before 
she  remembered  this,  to  her  confusion.  Sir  Oliver  went 
on,  roused  and  speaking  harshly.  "  When  did  I  go 
through?  Who  says  I  went  through?  I  tell  you, 
that  door  was  never  opened  since  my  mother  had  it 
closed." 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  there,"  said  Lucinda,  foolishly 
speaking  her  thought,  never  seeing  how  it  clashed  with 
her  last  words. 

"  Why — thou  art  a  fool,  girl !  What  can  possess  thee 
to  talk  such  folly  ?  "    Sir  Oliver  laughed  out  roundly,  but 


AK  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOK  241 

something  in  his  laugh  grated.  "  How  in  the  name  of 
patience  should  you  know  I. passed  through  it,  if  you  knew 
not  it  was  there  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Oliver! — it  was  not  I,  but  Kackham  that  knew 
it ;  'twas  but  a  part  of  the  nonsense  he  talked  with  Trant's 
fingers  on  his  forehead.  .  .  .  Yes,  Oliver,  stop  and  I 
will  tell  you.   ..." 

"  Tell  me  in  a  word !  What  lies  has  that  scoundrel  been 
telling  you?  Trant's  fingers  on  his  forehead,  in  good 
sooth!   .    .    .'' 

"  Now,  Oliver — be  not  so  angry  1  Leave  my  wrists — 
you  pinch  them!  What  is  it  all  but  a  piece  of  nonsense 
— the  matter  of  a  jest  ?  "  But  Lucinda^s  heart  goes  as 
she  speaks,  and  she  is  white  and  frightened. 

His  hands  relax  as  they  put  hers  aside,  and  he  raises 
his  head.  He  is  now  seated  beside  her,  for  he  has  swung 
his  feet  down  from  the  cushion  at  the  couch-head.  His 
breath  came  short  as  he  spoke,  and  she  has  no  guess  of 
the  reason  why  he  should  be  thus  moved,  the  more  that 
his  words  had  but  now  a  ring  of  unaccustomed  welcome 
tenderness,  quite  other  than  that  of  the  conventions  of  the 
stage  in  affairs  of  love,  with  the  like  of  which  from  him 
she  was  often  vexed,  though  she  confessed  it  not.  Now  is 
he  as  though  he  would  speak,  but  could  not.  However,  an 
end  comes  of  his  silence,  and  he  says,  under  his  voice, 
"What  has  he  told  thee?'' 

"Why  should  I  keep  anything  from  thee,  Oliver?  If 
only  I  can  bring  it  again  to  my  mind  to  tell.  But  it  was 
a  maze  of  nonsense.  This  door  he  had  in  mind  was  that 
very  same  one  you  spoke  of  but  now.  Not,  indeed,  that 
I  could  have  spoken  to  any  memory  of  it,  but  I  know  the 
place  in  the  wall  where  it  should  be,  a  pace  to  the  left  of 
the  two  yews,  dipt  to  seem  foxes.   •    .    .'' 


242  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOKOK 

"  Ay — ay — ay !  I  know  the  door  well.  What  tell  you 
me  of  it?     Speak  on  about  Rackham.   ..." 

"  Why — he  would  have  it,  in  this  daffing  of  his,  that 
after  the  duel   ..." 

"  What  was  the  duel  ?  You  spoke  of  no  duel.  God's 
my  life! — what's  all  this  history  now?  What  shall  we 
have  next  ?  A  duel — a  duel ! — and  who  fought  this  duel, 
I  pray  ?  "  Then  he  made  as  though  to  laugh,  as  in 
scorn. 

^ow  at  this  Lucinda's  heart  quaked.  But  not  so  much 
that  his  voice  was  harsh,  as  in  anger,  as  for  the  sound  of 
his  laugh,  that  had  in  it  little  of  the  life  of  true  laughter. 
IBut  no  thought  crossed  her  mind  that  the  cause  of  his 
gasping  thus  was  in  the  matter  of  her  speech.  Her  fear 
was  to  see  him  fall  suddenly,  seized  by  the  malady  she 
was  at  all  times  now  more  or  less  in  terror  of.  But  it 
was  best,  so  she  reasoned,  to  show  no  sign  of  this  fear, 
lest  by  doing  so  she  should  hasten  a  seizure  that  might  else 
pass  off.  She  would  be  wisest  to  hide  all  consciousness  of 
anything  amiss;  that  she  felt  sure  of.  So  she  answered 
him  quietly  enough,  "  That,  was  the  duel  this  crazypate 
Rackham  must  needs  dream  for  thee  to  fight  with  .  .  . 
come  now,  Oliver  mine,  thou  shalt  guess  whom  he  thought 
to  match  thee  with   .    .    .   guess  now!  " 

Then  Oliver,  in  despair,  caught  at  a  half-hope  that  the 
groom,  being  clearly  bewitched — ^that  he  had  no  doubt  of 
now — had  come  short  of  telling  a  true  story,  and  that 
what  he  had  told  had  been  some  jumble  of  madness 
within  reach  of  a  true  denial.  It  gave  him  heart  for  a 
less  ill-fangled  laugh  as  he  made  believe  to  guess,  choosing 
always  some  name  quite  out  of  question,  as  though  nothing 
could  be  too  absurd.  "Admiral  de  Ruyter,  Lucy  mine, 
the  fire-eating  Dutchman!     Or,  stay — I  will  guess  better 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  243 

than  that !  Good  King  Charles  himself — ho,  ho !  ^'  And 
his  greater  ease  set  Lucinda's  mind  at  rest  again.  But 
it  was  not  to  be  for  long. 

"  Silly  man !  "  said  she.  "  See,  now,  Oliver,  I  will  give 
thee  a  hint,  for  a  help  to  a  better  guess.  Did  you  not  say, 
but  now,  when  I  had  thy  foolish  head  in  my  lap,  that  you 
yourself  had  heard  this  drunken  knave  a-singing  of  my 
song  of  Lord  Ferrers  of  the  Dyke?  .  .  .  What! — no 
nearer  for  that  ?  .  .  .  Well^  look,  then,  at  this — I  will 
make  thee  another  present.  I  am  convinced  outright 
that  this  Eackham  being  in  a  sense  bewitched,  and  mak- 
ing— one  might  say — a  furmety  of  truth  in  falsehood, 
hath  taken  all  the  acts  of  this  ballad-tale,  fitting  the  part 
each  plays  to  someone  known  to  him.  .  .  .  What  of 
that,  dost  ask?  .  .  .  Come,  Oliver,  thou  art  slow! 
What  of  that,  in  sooth !  Why,  listen,  and  put  thy  mind  to 
the  thinking  of  it  out !  Who  should  he  light  upon  to  play 
the  frail  young  beauty  of  the  ballad — ^who  but  myself, 
your  Lucy?  A  sweet  compliment!  And  even  a  worser 
one  yet  for  thee,  Oliver  mine !  ISTo  wonder  thou  art  glum 
and  silent  over  it.  But  he  packed  thee  not  behind  the 
wainscot,  to  be  caught  like  a  fox  in  hiding.  No — do  him 
that  justice !  He  set  thee  to  fight  in  the  Park,  out  a  mfle 
beyond  where  thy  mother  lies — rest  her  soul!  Come 
now,  Oliver,  I  have  all  but  told  thee  whose  sword  crossed 
thine — 'tis  thy  affectation,  not  to  guess.  ..."  She 
paused  as  for  an  answer,  with  half-playful  gestures  of 
impatience,  a  foot  that  tapped  the  ground  and  fingers 
struck  together  quickly ;  then  went  on :  "  Who  was  the  old 
man  the  lover  slew — come,  now,  whose  father  was  he? 
...     Oh,  Oliver,  what  ails  thee  ?  " 

For  Sir  Oliver  is  on  his  feet  now,  and  that  hollow  sound 
is  his  voice.     Or,  rather,  what  would  have  been  his  voice 


244  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0E 

had  articulation  made  speech  of  it.  What  is  it  he  is 
striving  now  to  say?  He  is — he  is — ^he  is  something  he 
can  find  no  word  to  tell;  or,  having  found  one,  dares  not 
utter  it. 

Lucinda  is  beside  him  in  her  terror.  This  is  to  her, 
surely,  some  new  phase  of  epileptic  seizure.  It  is  all  a 
part  of  it  that  he  should  thrust  her  from  him — nothing  he 
is  answerable  for. 

But  it  is  a  thing  that  he  persists  in,  holding  her  at 
arm's  length,  until,  with  slow  effort  and  suffocated  gasps, 
he  at  last  finds  speech — ^hard  to  hear  through  teeth  half- 
clenched,  hard  to  distinguish  from  mere  convulsive 
breath,  but  still  speech.  And  the  same  speech,  again  and 
again. 

"  Keep  from  me — ^keep  from  me — till  you  hear — till 
you  know !  "  And  then,  in  answer  to  the  ^^  Oh,  why 
this  ?  "  of  Lucinda — for  she  is  helpless  to  say  more — he 
says  more  plainly,  with  some  recovery  of  speech :  "  Do 
you  as  I  tell  you,  girl,  and  you  shall  know;"  and  then 
drops  heavily  back  on  the  seat  he  has  left. 

As  she  comes  to  see  in  all  this  something  terrible  afoot 
she  cannot  grasp  the  meaning  of  as  yet,  her  eyesight 
swims  and  her  powers  of  speech  have  gone,  leaving  her 
rigid,  motionless  as  a  marble  statue,  yet  with  a  buried 
longing  to  speak  that  never  comes  to  more  than  a  half- 
moan.    But  she  can  hear  what  he  says. 

"  It  was  no  fault  of  mine — this  thing.  I  swear  it.  I 
never  sought  to  kill  him.  Had  he  handled  his  weapon 
less  well,  I  could  have  disarmed  him.  But  this  was  no 
boy's  play,  with  a  sword-arm  like  his.  I  would  my  thrust 
had  not  been  mortal — it  was  not  my  intent.  O  Lucy — 
Lucy! — had  he  parried  that  thrust,  I  might  have  been 
slain.    'Twas  a  choice  of  two — 'twixt  him  and  me.    Who 


'AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  245 

dares  speak  more  blame  of  me  than  of  another  in  my 
place?  Who  would  have  done  other  than  I  did?  O 
Lucy — Lucy! — had  he  not  been  such  a  swordsman,  I 
might  have  cried  off  and  none  have  called  me  dastard. 
But  how  could  I  choose,  in  honour,  but  meet  his  challenge 
as  he  gave  it?   .    .    ." 

And  then  he  pauses,  as  Lucinda  speaks.  But  her  words 
come  as  the  words  of  one  that  knows  not  who  hears  her. 
*'  Do  I  know  what  all  this  means  ? "  she  asks,  much  as  a 
dreamer,  who  wakes  he  knows  not  where,  might  question 
a  bystander ;  and  then  goes  on :  "  What  is  this  he  tells  of 
some  man  he  has  slain  ? ''  And  then  suddenly  she  cries 
out:  '^  Oliver! — speak  the  truth  to  me!  Who  is  the  man 
you  speak  of  ?    Who  is  it  you  have  killed  ?  " 

Then  Oliver,  however  sick  at  heart  he  be,  has  no  choice 
but  to  speak.  '^  It  was  your  father,"  he  says,  and  sits  on 
silent. 

So  they  remain,  but  neither  knows  how  long.  It  may 
be  a  few  seconds,  or  it  may  be  hours,  for  any  measure  of 
time  in  the  mind  of  either.  She  remains  fixed  and 
motionless,  a  very  statue  in  her  stillness;  and  as  the 
flaring  candles,  now  near  their  end,  shift  and  flicker  in  the 
wind  each  time  it  blows  open  a  loose  casement,  letting  in 
a  rush  of  music  from  the  sea,  her  face  shows  white  in  the 
moonlight  they  give  place  to.  E'ot  a  sound  from  either ! — 
nothing  against  sheer  silence  but  the  life  of  the  night 
without;  the  distant  thunder  of  the  shore,  the  cry  of  its 
responsive  shingle;  the  wind  that  means  to  find  in  the 
hours  of  sleep  new  ways  of  moaning  through  the  silent 
house  and  roaring  in  its  chimneys,  and  now  is  rushing 
inland  with  the  flying  scud  of  foam  below  and  vapour 
overhead  to  tell  all  who  will  listen  what  it  means — that 
low  bank  of  inky  black  it  left  upon  the  offing,  and  how 


246  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIs^OE 

it  will  not  be  a  laggard  long.  Make  shutters  fast — it  is 
the  storm !  That  is  its  word  to  wakeful  ears ;  few  enough 
now,  so  late  is  the  hour ! 

But  it  may  be  Lucinda  has  heard  no  sound;  has  seen, 
has  understood  nothing  since  those  awful  words  came 
from  her  lover^s  lips,  "  It  was  your  father !  "  But  it  was 
her  power  to  take  their  meaning  that  makes  her  now 
unconscious  of  all  else.  Had  they  failed  to  reach  her 
mind,  speech  would  still  have  been  hers.  But  she  knows 
the  truth,  and  her  heart  is  near  dead  with  the  knowledge 
of  it.  All  is  void  and  waste  for  her  now,  this  side  of  the 
grave,  and  she  is  face  to  face  with  a  Something — a  thing 
to  poison  the  sweet  air  of  morning  with  the  taste  of  blood, 
and  dye  the  sunrays  scarlet.  A  thing  that,  could  she  find 
her  tongue  to  speak  it,  might  best  be  uttered  thus :  ^^  My 
sin  has  slain  my  father,  and  the  guilt  of  his  death  is 
mine."  But  never  a  word  said  she,  as  she  stood  there, 
a  soul  in  torture  in  a  cruel  void,  filled  with  her  own 
guilt. 

The  first  to  move  was  Oliver.  He  rose  just  as  though 
he  lifted  a  great  weight  in  rising.  He  moved  towards  her 
as  though  it  bore  him  down.  He  went  with  hands  ad- 
vanced as  though  to  shelter  the  head  that  sunk  so  low. 
How  comes  it  that  he,  who  more  than  once  has  laughed 
aside  all  guilt  as  of  murder  done,  on  the  false  plea  that  the 
fair  conditions  of  the  duel  assoil  the  slayer  of  his  brother — 
yes! — would  have  freed  Cain  from  the  curse  God  laid 
upon  him — how  comes  it  that  he  has  fallen  so  low  as  this  ? 
How  come  his  bold  eyes  to  flinch  from  meeting  those  of 
the  woman  he  has  wronged? — he  that  has  made  light  of 
a  hundred  broken  hearts — has  flung  a  hundred  cast-off 
shames  to  his  victims,  to  be  worn  as  a  livery  at  the  bidding 
of  a  world  of  hypocrites,  half-ready  with  applause  of  a 


AK  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  247 

sort — ready,  at  least,  to  sneak  off  blame — for  him? 
Where  was  all  his  old  effrontery,  that  had  been  so  good  a 
friend  to  him  so  many  a  time  ere  now?  The  answer  lay 
in  this :  that  Nemesis  had  come  upon  him  in  the  very  form 
of  the  God  he  had  blasphemed  through  a  lifetime — Love 
himself.  Love,  with  a  sentence  of  intolerable  doom — 
fruitless  Remorse! 

Fruitless,  and  he  was  to  know  its  fruitlessness  almost 
before  its  sting  had  time  to  reach  his  soul.  For  when  in 
his  blind  despair  of  any  speech  that  could  palliate  his 
crime,  he  sought,  while  he  dared  not  try  to  get  Lucinda 
once  more  in  his  arms,  at  least  to  take  her  by  the  hand, 
that  hand — the  memory  of  whose  touch  was  still  upon  his 
face — struck  his  aside  so  fiercely  that  the  ring  upon  it 
scored  his  flesh,  and  left  him  bleeding,  though,  indeed,  he 
took  no  note  of  it.  And  then,  with  one  long,  piercing 
shriek,  she  started  from  him,  well  away  to  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room ;  for  he  was  betwixt  her  and  the  door, 
or  she  might  have  made  for  it. 

Then  she  found  her  voice ;  or,  rather,  it  should  be  said, 
she  found  a  voice  she  did  not  know  as  her  own.  "  Keep 
off — ^keep  off — ^keep  away!  "  it  cried,  using  the  words  she 
would  have  it  use.  And  then  a  word  harder  to  say — 
'^  Murderer !  "  She  had  to  force  the  voice  to  make  it 
come.  But  it  came  in  the  end.  And  then,  once  spoken, 
she  found  it  easier  to  speak,  and  knew  the  voice  was  her 
own  that  said  again,  and  yet  again :  "  Murderer — ^mur- 
derer— murderer !  " 

*'  God  is  my  witness,"  said  he,  using  the  form  of  speech 
men  use  to  make  a  falsehood  true,  "  that  I  am  no 
murderer.  All  was  fair  betwixt  us,  for  him  as  for  me. 
O  Lucinda! — had  he  been  the  slayer  and  I  the  slain, 
would  you  have  called  him  ' murderer' f 


248  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:^OR 

She  stood  white  in  the  moonlight,  close  to  the  open 
casement,  her  forbidding  hands  stretched  out  towards 
him,  to  make  his  distance  sure.  Her  speech  came  quick 
and  short,  an  undertone  articulate  with  pain,  but  clear  in 
accent  and  unmistakable  in  meaning.  "  I  know  nothing 
of  how  I  might  have  named  him — but  this  I  know — for  I 
loved  you  once,  Oliver — oh,  how  I  loved  you! — I  know 
his  lips  would  never  have  touched  his  daughter's  lips 
again — his  palm  should  never  have  pressed  mine,  though 
I  died  for  it.     For,  Oliver,  I  loved  you,  once ! '' 

The  man  knew  what  he  had  lost,  and  would  have  caught 
at  any  straw  to  save  his  fall.  But  he  had  no  heart  for  his 
own  defence,  all  the  more  that  he  knew  well  that,  in 
strictness,  every  law  of  the  duello  had  not  been  observed ; 
for  was  not  his  opponent  already  wounded  when  he  made 
that  fatal  thrust? — a  murderer's,  surely,  with  that  con- 
sciousness upon  him.  He  had  slain  a  man  no  longer  able 
to  attack  him. 

He  strove  to  utter  some  plea  for  himself — any  mock- 
justification  was  better  than  none.  But  his  teeth  locked 
over  his  words,  and  what  he  began  to  say  went  shuddering 
down  to  an  inarticulate  moan.  All  his  mastery  of  himself 
was  at  fault;  or,  rather,  all  was  blank,  and  he  was  a 
conscious  nothing,  in  a  void.  And  Lucinda's  voice,  for 
she  spoke  again,  sounded  leagues  away :  "  I  loved  you 
once,  Oliver — Oliver ! '' 

Yet  these  last  words  were  not  her  own,  to  his  hearing, 
but  had  some  accent  of  a  speech  he  knew,  or  knew  he  had 
known  once.  How  could  he  say  when,  now,  in  this  mist  ? 
Then,  for  him,  all  things  ceased. 

For  her,  she  had  caught  sight  of  it  coming,  the  thing 
she  feared,  when  his  voice  failed.  She  had  seen  the  dire 
strain  coming  on  the  muscles  of  his  face,  the  upward  drag 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  249 

upon  the  eyeball,  and  she  knew  beforehand  what  she 
should  hear  in  a  moment — the  awful  cry  of  the  epileptic. 
Her  fingers  were  too  late  to  stop  her  ears  against  the 
sound,  glad  as  she  would  have  been  to  shut  it  out.  Then 
she  saw  him  fall  with  all  his  weight,  and  lie  jerking  and 
writhing  on  the  oaken  floor. 

How  came  that  great  inky  curtain  to  be  hanging  still 
above  the  distant  sea,  and  never  nearing  the  land? 
Rank  upon  rank  of  great  white-crested  breakers,  lifting 
to  espy  the  shore,  and  falling  disappointed,  but  to  rise 
again,  spoke  of  the  great  wind  that  was  rushing  landward 
from  the  black  pall  of  the  horizon.  And  yet  the  storm 
itself  was  slow  to  come.  But  those  clouds  were  heralds 
of  it,  whose  speed  across  the  outer  blue  made  the  high 
moon  seem  to  fly  for  ever  through  an  endless  heaven.  It 
could  not  be  long,  now. 

JSTot  long !  For  through  the  very  heart  of  its  blackness 
shot  a  sudden  splintered  shaft  of  lightning,  all  the  length 
of  the  offing,  and  left  it  blacker  than  before.  And  the 
woman  who  came  from  the  front  doorway  of  the  Manor 
House,  that  looked  seaward,  was  in  time  to  see  it,  and 
waited,  listening  for  the  thunder. 

For  there  is  none  among  us  but  will  pause  betwixt  the 
first  flash  and  the  first  voice  of  the  storm's  artillery,  even 
though  the  stress  and  cumber  of  life  be  at  its  worst  upon 
him.  Lucinda's  life  had  become,  in  this  last  hour,  no 
other  than  a  terrible  dream  to  her,  but  she  had  it  in  her 
still  to  pay  this  tribute  to  the  terrors  of  the  storm.  Even 
John  Rackham,  very  late  at  turning  loose  the  blood- 
hounds for  the  night,  did  not  pass  her  with  a  mere  hat- 
touch  in  silence,  his  usual  greeting,  but  stopped  for  one 
moment  to  say,  ^'  Going  to  be  a  rough  night,  my  lady ! '' 


250  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOXOE 

and  then  stood  waiting  for  the  coming  sound.  It  came — 
a  long,  continuous  roar  that  neither  rose  nor  fell,  too 
satisfied  of  its  strength  to  need  it  now.  That  was  for  the 
time  to  come. 

John  Rackham  took  no  heed  at  all  of  the  ashy  pallor  of 
his  mistress's  face.  Or  if  he  did,  he  set  it  down  to  mere 
terror  of  the  lightning,  and  the  boding  rumble  of  the 
coming  thunder.  But  what  she  said  next  roused  even 
his  torpid  and  apathetic  nature  to  some  astonishment. 

"  Saddle  the  colt,  my  lady ! ''  he  exclaimed.  "  Would 
you  ride  out  a  night  like  this?  See  the  storm  brewing 
yonder." 

For  Lucinda's  speech  had  been,  briefly,  that  he  should 
put  the  saddle  on  the  young  horse.  She  was  minded  to 
ride,  and  there  an  end!  And  when  he  made  objection 
to  this,  she  silenced  him  imperiously,  saying :  ^'  Do  my 
bidding,  Master  Rackham,  for  I  tell  you  this — I  am 
in  earnest.  Refuse  me,  and  I  go  straight  to  Sir  Oliver, 
and  tell  him  of  my  own  hearing,  from  your  own  lips,  of 
the  crazy  tale  you  have  thought  fit  to  utter  concerning 
him  and  my  father.  So  be  wise  in  time,  and  saddle  the 
horse  as  I  have  told  you.  Have  him  in  waiting  in 
the  stable-yard  for  me  when  I  have  made  ready  for  the 
saddle." 

John  Rackham  thought  and  waited — ^waited  and 
thought;  then  began  some  objection,  as  that  the  young 
horse  would  go  past  control  from  terror  of  the  lightning, 
and  what  not.  But  Lucinda  cuts  him  short  with  "  Do 
as  I  say,  or  I  .  .  . " ;  and  is  turning  to  go,  leaving  her 
speech  half-spoken.  Whereat  the  groom  is  ready  with 
assent :  "  Going — going,  mistress !  Ne'er-a-one  gainsays 
ye,  that  I  wot  of,"  and  is  off  to  the  stable-yard. 

The  great  storm  is  coming  quickly  now,  and  darkness  is 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R  251 

over  the  moon  as  Lucinda  passes  up  the  staircase  to  her 
sleeping-room.  She  finds  an  over-wrap — no  more — such 
a  one  as  she  would  use  against  a  shower;  then  taking  off 
some  jewels,  gifts  of  Sir  Oliver's,  leaves  them  lying  by 
her  mirror,  and  turns  to  go. 

In  the  lobby  she  is  accosted  by  Mrs.  Trant,  from  the 
upper  stairway :  "  Have  you  called,  my  lady  ? '' 

"  I  have  not  called.  .  .  .  Stop — go  presently  to  Sir 
Oliver;  not  yet — in  a  little  while."  She  said  no  more, 
but  her  pausing  thus  with  a  jerk  seemed  due,  in  all  reason, 
to  the  sudden  flash  of  dazzling  lightning  that  was  keen  to 
search  every  corner  of  the  house,  and,  by  some  mysterious 
force  none  understands,  jarred  every  window-frame  in  its 
Betting.  By  its  light  each  woman  saw  the  other,  the 
vision  of  a  moment.  The  one,  on  the  stairway  above, 
respectful,  with  a  snaky  smile,  and  green  eyes  concealing 
something — something  with  a  satisfaction  in  it.  The 
other,  an  ashy  white  face  most  of  all,  and  two  white  hands. 
Else,  a  mass  of  rich  black  hair,  all  shaken  loose,  and  a 
hooded  riding-cloak.  But  the  swift,  eager  cunning  of 
Susan  Trant  sees  that  the  fingers  are  all  but  ringless,  and 
that  the  rope  of  pearls  she  was  at  such  pains  to  twine, 
three  hours  since,  is  there  no  more.  So  back  she  goes  to 
her  room,  to  think  out  the  unfinished  thought  that  this 
suggests  to  her. 

Lucinda,  going,  pauses  an  instant  at  the  door  of  the 
room  where  Oliver  still  lies,  breathing  heavily,  still  in 
stupor.  Then  she  opens  it,  and  goes  in.  And  is  standing 
there  again,  once  more,  beside  the  man  she  loved,  and 
hates. 

Oh,  the  knife-edge  in  her  heart,  of  Love  and  Hate  at 
war!  Oh  that  she  could,  but  just  for  once,  strain  an 
enforcement  of  oblivion  in  her  mind — thrust  his  crime 


252  AK  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOl^OK 

aside,  and  leave  him  what  he  was  a  few  hours  since — only 
to  kiss  once  more  the  face  she  loved!  The  last  expiring 
flicker  of  the  last  candle  showed  her  the  blood  from  his 
mouth  the  fit  had  left.  But  it  was  not  that  she  shrank 
from  as  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  stained  lips.  It  was 
the  thought  in  her  heart :  "  This  that  I  kiss  is  my  father's 
murderer."  Forgive  her  inconsistency,  for  she  was  sorely 
tried! 

The  rain  was  holding  off,  strangely,  after  a  sudden 
shower  of  heavy  drops,  when  she  came  to  John  Eack- 
ham  in  the  stable-yard.  All  moonlight  had  gone,  and 
his  horn  lanthorn  was  the  only  gleam  through  the 
blackness. 

"  Who  said  to  you  you  should  saddle  Sir  Oliver's  horse, 
John  Kackham  ?  " 

"  Who  told  me  not  to  put  his  saddle  on  him,  mistress  ? 
!N"one,  to  my  knowledge!  " 

"  I  tell  you  then,  now,  to  take  it  off  again.  For 
I  ride  alone.  And  it  is  no  concern  of  any  but  myself 
what  hour  of  the  night  I  choose  to  ride,  nor  in  what 
weather." 

Mr.  Eackham  grunted.  ^^  Alone !  "  said  he.  Then, 
after  nodding  twice  or  thrice,  at  short  intervals :  "  It's 
not  for  my  like  to  speak,"  said  he. 

Lucinda  pressed  her  hand  to  her  brow.  "  Stop !  "  she 
said.  And  then  a  minute  after :  "  Mount  and  go  with 
me,  to  show  the  way." 

"  The  way  to  where,  my  lady  ?  " 

"  The  way  to  the  '  Cobbler  with  Two  Wives,'  on  the 
London  road." 

Their  horses'  hoofs,  going  at  speed,  were  well  out  of 
hearing,   and  time  had  passed  to  boot.     And  whoever 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOis^OR  253 

heard  the  ominous  sounds  afar  might  have  wondered  at 
the  storm's  delay.  But,  then,  on  a  sudden  came  a  swift 
glare  of  lightning  all  across  the  sky,  and  close  upon  the 
heels  of  it  its  thunder,  climbing  sound  on  sound,  culmi- 
nating in  an  intolerable  peal.    The  storm  had  come. 


CHAPTEK  XY 

Consciousness  came  back  slowly  to  Sir  Oliver,  but, 
till  he  regained  his  lagging  powers  of  thought,  showed 
him  imperfectly  what  he  was,  or  where.  All  the  stress  of 
his  convulsion  had  died  away  by  the  time  Susan  Trant, 
leaving  her  room  furtively,  that  she  should  not  wake  her 
mother,  and  without  a  light — for  that  would  have  meant 
the  noise  of  a  tinder-box — went  shoeless  down  the  garret- 
stair,  and  opened  the  door  she  had  listened  at  two  hours 
since. 

What  she  had  expected,  that  she  found.  Darkness, 
and  a  heavy  breathing  somewhere  in  the  room.  Where 
was  he,  the  stricken  man  ?  Wait  for  the  next  flash  of  the 
half-spent  storm  to  see.  For  the  tempest  has  said  its  say, 
and  nears  its  end,  and  has  left  a  tale  for  the  hearing  of 
those  who  slept  on,  and  heeded  nothing  of  it.  A  tale  for 
those  to  tell  who  waked  through  the  darkness,  and  stopped 
their  ears,  and  hid  their  eyes  in  terror.  And  a  worse  one 
yet  for  those  roused  from  sleep  by  some  intruding 
torrent;  or,  worst  of  all,  to  quench  a  fire  kindled  by  some 
thunderbolt.  The  storm  is  dying  now,  and  the  thunder 
rolling  happily  away  in  other  lands. 

But  a  flash  comes  back  and  back,  now  and  again.  A 
flash  that  says — remember!  And  a  muttered  confirma- 
tion from  a  thunder-roll,  that  knows  and  could  tell  more. 
Such  a  flash  shows  Susan  where  Sir  Oliver  lies,  over  by 
the  table  yonder.  And  even  in  the  instant  of  its  passing 
she  can  see  there  has  been  blood  upon  his  mouth,  and  on 

254 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  255      _ 

his  hand.  It  is  the  old  storj.  She  has  seen  it  before, 
and  knows  that  it  will  have  its  way,  and  end  like  the 
storm.  And  in  near  the  same  time;  for,  sharp  as  this 
storm  has  been,  it  has  passed  swiftly  away,  unlike  that 
great  storm  the  story  told  of,  two  months  since,  at  the 
:^rew  Hall. 

Susan  Trant  waits  on  for  one  flash  more  to  see  if  there 
is  any  change;  but  none  has  shown  itself.  He  lies  stilly 
breathing  heavily.  She  can  go,  for  a  while  certainly. 
She  makes  her  way  to  the  bedroom,  and  stands  by  the 
mirror,  waiting  for  a  lightning-flash  to  show  her  something 
she  expects  to  find.  It  comes,  and  she  sees  the  brilliants 
of  the  rings  give  back  the  light.  She  knows  their  story — 
they  will  never  be  worn  by  Lucinda  again. 

One  by  one  she  takes  them,  and  there  in  the  darkness 
can,  by  touch  alone,  fit  each  on  its  finger  of  her  left  hand. 
How  well  she  knows  its  likeness  to  Lucinda's!  Theft  is 
not  in  her  mind.     She  has  some  other  object. 

Surely  jealousy  is  akin  to  madness.  At  least,  its 
freaks  are  unaccountable  to  reason.  And  never  did  a 
jealous  woman's  exasperation  conceive  a  stranger  freak 
than  this  one  that  now  has  possession  of  Susan  Trant's 
mind.  To  dupe  an  old  lover  back  to  the  tenderness  of 
long-past  years — to  cheat  him  as  it  were  of  a  caress  in  the 
false  semblance  of  the  hated  rival — that  was  her  scheme. 
Her  cunning  taught  her  that  his  half-wit  state,  following 
on  the  fit,  would  play  into  her  hands,  and  help  the  fraud. 
A  crazy  plan  to  all  seeming,  and  yet  .  .  .  was  it  quite 
mad? — was  it  out  of  all  nature? 

Scarcely  that;  for,  think  of  the  story  of  her  life. 
Think  how,  twenty  years  since,  it  w^as  all  aglow  with  her 
ill-fated  passion  for  the  fascinating  young  Squire.  Think 
of  her  discovery  that  his  every  word  she  hung  upon,  his 


256  AX  AFEAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0K 

every  honeyed  promise  she  put  faith  in,  was  just  a  lie,  with 
a  motive.  Think  how  it  broke  upon  her  slowly  what  it 
all  meant,  as  it  does  in  such-like  cases,  and  how  she  came 
to  find  the  meaning  of  the  word  love,  used  by  one  in 
training  for  a  man"  of  pleasure,  a  neophyte  of  one  of  the 
worst  powers  of  darkness.  Think  of  the  blank  life  meant 
to  her,  when  she  had  perforce  to  shield  herself  from  the 
malice  of  her  little  rustic  world  of  gossipred  behind  a 
marriage-shelter,  with  a  heavy  fool  for  an  accomplice — 
of  the  ferment  of  lies  that  rose  as  incense  at  the  altar  of  a 
blasphemous  sacrament,  and  made  it  suffocation.  And 
think  of  all  the  years  that  had  gone  by  since  then,  whose 
only  alleviation  had  been  these  visits  of  Sir  Oliver's  to 
Kips  Manor,  with  the  poison  in  them  that  her  sole  share 
of  their  advantages  was  the  painful  privilege  of  waiting 
on  the  favourite  of  the  time  being — dressing  her  hair, 
keeping  her  robes  in  order.  How  she  hated  them! — 
poor  girls,  each  to  be  flung  away  in  her  turn  by  the 
gallant  man  of  fashion!  But  she  had  hated  none  worse 
than  Lucinda. 

It  is  nothing  to  the  story  or  its  purpose  that  Susan 
may  have  counted  her  marriage-vows  to  Farmer  Trant  as 
not  binding  in  the  case  of  a  landlord — a  man  whose  dis- 
pleasure could  send  her  husband  packing  off  a  farm  his 
sixth  grandfather  held  near  two  hundred  years  ago. 
But  whatever  her  relations  may  have  been  with  Oliver  in 
the  first  ten  years  of  her  married  life,  it  was  all  over  and 
done  with  now.  Cold  indifference  had  congealed  over  a 
passion  that  had  never  been  Love  at  its  best. 

She  knew  now,  more  of  her  own  innate  cunning  and 
insight  than  from  mere  words  heard,  what  Lucinda's  last 
interview  with  Oliver  had  led  to,  and  she  felt  assured 
that  the  insensible  man's  first  dawn  of  reason  would  set 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOR  257 

him  to  seek  absolution  for  bis  crime.  Could  she,  in  tbe 
darkness  tbere,  so  work  pn  bis  obscured  perceptions  as 
to  seem  Lucinda  to  him,  if  it  were  only  for  a  few  mo- 
ments ?  Often  when  a  chance  witness  of  endearments  of 
Sir  Oliver^s — ^for  he  made  no  reserve  in  her  presence — 
she  had  said  to  herself,  in  bitterness  of  heart :  "  A  caress 
like  that  would  have  brought  back  me  my  youth,  and  made 
a  forgotten  sun  shine  on  my  world  again.'' 

She  crept  to  his  side  in  the  darkness,  and  got  his 
head  in  her  lap,  sitting  on  a  stool  that  was  at  hand.  As 
she  raised  him  he  showed  that  he  had  become  conscious, 
though  he  lay  half-helpless.  He  tried  to  speak  once  and 
again  before  he  succeeded  in  uttering  the  word  he  sought 
for — "  Li^cy — Lucy !  " 

Susan  Trant,  as  in  response,  bent  over  him  and  kissed 
his  face.  There  was  no  lack  of  tenderness  in  her  kiss. 
She  could  play  that  part;  it  had  never  been  forgotten  by 
her.  Nor  were  her  lips  so  changed  in  a  few  years  that 
they  should  grate  on  a  face  to  which  they  had  once  been 
welcome,  even  though  its  sense  had  not  been  in  abeyance. 

One  might  have  thought  no  woman  could  have  felt  it 
gain  thus  to  personate  another,  and  drink,  as  it  were,  the 
draught  that  he  who  poured  it  meant  for  that  other's  lips. 
It  only  concerns  the  story  to  tell  that  in  this  case  it 
was  otherwise,  and  that  the  draught  she  drank  fraudu- 
lently was  a  half-successful  counterfeit  of  wine.  How- 
ever strange  it  may  seem,  it  was  to  her,  when  the  man's 
returning  consciousness  sought  and  caressed  her  hand, 
almost  as  though  their  hands  still  met,  as  of  old,  in  youth. 
It  was  her  hour,  and  again  and  again,  there  in  the  black 
darkness,-  she  bent  over  him ;  again  and  again  she  kissed 
his  lips,  his  brows,  his  eyes.  And,  to  her,  the  hand  that 
held  and  fondled  what  he  took  to  be  Lucinda's,  was  the 


258  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

voimg  Squire's  again,  out  of  the  past.  It  brought  back 
to  her  one  evening  twilight,  at  a  harvesting,  when  the 
village  beauty  had  come  at  once  to  the  knowledge  of  her 
own  folly,  and  her  lover's  treachery. 

His  speech  was  coming  back  now.  What  was  he  say- 
ing ?  ^^  No  murderer,  Lucy,  no  murderer !  Let  them 
say  their  worst — 'twas  no  murder!  'Twas  on  fair  ground, 
and  neither  faced  the  sun.  No,  no ! — no  murder !  " 
Then  he  paused  a  moment,  and  said,  of  a  sudden :  '^  But 
you  have  forgiven  me,  Lucy  mine  ?  "  and  kissed  the  fingers 
with  the  rings  upon  them  he  knew  so  well. 

Then,  thinks  Susan  to  herself,  how  should  she  find  a 
word  she  might  safely  utter  ?  A  recollection  came  to  her 
— one  of  her  mother,  quite  at  a  loss  to  tell  whether  it  was 
her  daughter  that  had  spoken,  or  her  mistress.  The 
words  she  herself  had  then  used,  mocking  Lucinda's,  came 
back  to  her.  ^^  Surely,  Oliver,  surely !  "  said  she.  But 
her  voice  had  in  it  a  sadness,  well  feigned  to  fit  the 
occasion. 

Thereupon  Sir  Oliver  seemed  to  arouse  himself  from 
his  stupor,  or  else  the  effect  of  his  fit  was  leaving  him. 
^'  What  am  I  doing  here  upon  the  floor  ? "  said  he. 
^*  Strike  a  light,  wench !  Call  Trant,  or  some  of  them. 
Have  I  slept  ?    What  ?  " 

Now,  Susan's  mimicry  of  Lucinda's  voice  had  been  a 
great  success,  but  she  knew  she  would  not  have  such  luck 
again.  Nevertheless,  as  she  slipped  away  from  Oliver's 
side,  making  as  though  to  call  for  a  light  to  be  struck,  or 
brought  from  the  burning  log  in  the  kitchen,  which  was 
rarely  dead  outright,  she  got  courage  to  play  the  same 
trick  again,  from  a  memory  of  how  Lucinda  had  called 
to  her  many  a  time.  ^^  Trant — Trant !  "  she  cried,  and 
her  mockery  of  Lucinda's  voice  was  apt  and  clever,  as 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOXOR  259 

before.  ''  Get  us  light.  We  are  all  in  the  dark  here.'' 
It  might  have  been  Lucy  herself  calling.  Then  she  slips 
away  in  the  dark  up  the  garret-stair  to  her  room,  where 
the  old  woman  still  sleeps  soundly,  and  is  soon  rid  of 
Lucinda's  dress  and  the  rings,  and  then  turns  to  in  her 
night-gear  with  flint  and  steel  and  tinder,  to  get  a  light 
for  her  taper. 

Sir  Oliver  calls  after  the  departing  steps  he  thinks  are 
Lucy's :  "  Call  the  sleepy  jade,  Lucy  mine !  Don't  go. 
Make  the  sluggard  come."  And  then,  staggering  to  his 
feet  in  the  dark,  leans  on  the  table,  dizzy.  He  can  hear 
the  flint  and  steel's  sharp  click  in  the  garret,  and  a  little 
wonders  not  to  hear  Lucinda's  voice.  But  she  will  come 
back  directly,  so  he  thinks.  Meanwhile,  it  is  only  by 
the  utter  strangeness  of  all  about  him  that  he  knows  he 
has  had  an  epileptic  attack.  It  has  been  so,  thrice  before, 
and  he  has  come  to  know  what  this  thing  means.  But 
he  is  clear  enough  about  all  that  came  before  his 
un  consciousness. 

He  sees  he  is  in  luck.  This  woman  is  indeed  entirely 
his  own.  This  was  a  lucky  fit,  that  softened  her  heart 
to  him.  Had  it  not  been  for  her  pity  for  his  afiliction, 
he  might  have  had  to  wait  for  her  words  of  pardon  a 
long  time.  He  was  the  first  man,  surely,  the  falling  sick- 
ness ever  wrought  good  for.  Had  it  not  been  for  that, 
could  she  ever  have  cried  back  upon  the  tone  of  voice  in 
which  she  named  him  murderer?  Could  she  ever  have 
spoken  at  all  a  heart-whole  forgiveness  such  as  the  one 
that  sent  rejoicing  to  his  soul  but  now  ?  The  fit  has  done 
it,  and  he  is  in  luck !    But  why  does  she  not  come  back  ? 

He  is  firmer  on  his  legs,  and  feels  his  way  to  the  door. 
A  flash  of  lightning  afar  spares  light  enough  to  give  him 
help  to  find  it.    He  opens  it,  and  listens  for  voices  above. 


260  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

But  there  is  no  sound  beyond  the  flint  and  steel — chip, 
chip,  chip,  interminably. 

It  stops  at  last.    J^ow  she  will  come,  surely ! 

Yes — a  step  on  the  stairs,  and  a  light.  But  why  does 
not  that  lazy  woman  come  to  carry  it?  However,  she 
has  to  get  some  clothes  on  her  back,  certainly. 

Sir  Oliver's  eyesight  is  not  at  its  best,  and  little  wonder! 
But  there  should  go  some  reason  to  the  very  worst 
vagaries  of  a  stricken  power  of  vision,  falling  sickness  or 
no!  Was  it  reasonable  that  Lucinda,  who  went  upstairs 
but  a  moment  since  in  silk  brocade,  should  now  seem 
cjothed  in  some  grey  dingy  wrapper — and  barefoot  too ! — 
what  did  it  all  mean?  He  could  see,  by  the  flickering 
taper's  gleam  below,  the  white  feet  on  the  stairway  and 
the  skirt  of  grey  homespun.  But  the  face — the  face — his 
eyes  were  so  eager  for — was  lost  in  the  shadow  of  the  free 
hand  held  up  to  shield  the  light.  The  skirt  and  the  feet 
his  mind  accepted,  or  was  too  unhinged  to  question.  But 
that  hand ! — how  about  the  rings  ?  Was  he  not  kissing  it 
a  moment  since,  in  the  dark  there — knowing  them  there, 
and  avoiding  them  with  his  lips  ? 

"  Where  is  lazy  Susan,  Lucy  mine  ?  "  he  asked,  but 
more  because  he  longed  to  hear  her  voice  again  than  from 
any  concern  about  Susan. 

The  wrong  voice,  in  return,  took  him  grievously  aback. 
"  Is  not  my  lady  still  with  you.  Sir  Oliver  ?  She  called 
out  to  me  but  now  to  bring  a  light,  and  I  would  I  could 
have  struck  it  quicker.  But  she  is  still  below  here,  as  I 
think." 

"  She  is  not,  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Trant.  I  heard  her  foot- 
step on  the  stair,  mounting  to  your  room.  But  now,  I 
tell  you,  but  now — five  minutes  since — or  scarcely !  "  He 
is  all  in  a  tremor  as  he  speaks,  while  she  remains  still 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOKOE  261 

calm  and  respectful,  lier  common  manner  with  him  in 
these  later  years,  now  that  all  familiarities  are  at  an  end 
between  them;  not  that  this  meant  any  amendment  of 
his  life  at  heart,  but  solely  came  of  inclination  dead,  and 
other  fruit  to  pluck  elsewhere. 

She  is  most  collected  now,  certainly,  and  her  respect 
of  manner  seems  to  veil  ridicule  or  commiseration,  or  both 
•mixed.  Why  this  excitement? — it  seems  to  say.  But 
her  words  are,  "  All  is  well  with  my  lady,  Sir  Oliver.  Ko 
-doubt  she  is  out  above,  on  the  terrace,  to  see  the  lightning. 
I  had  not  heard  her  pass  for  the  noise  I  made." 

Yes — that  would  account  for  it,  of  course.  Oliver  per- 
ceives that  all  these  nervous  fancies  are  due  to  his  accursed 
seizure.  Else  he  would  have  seen  this  himself,  at  once. 
Of  course  she  has  gone  out  on  the  roof,  there  where  they 
saw  the  sea-battle  together.  She  knew  the  lighting  of  a 
candle  was  no  matter  of  an  instant. 

He  passes  by  Susan  Trant,  and  goes  after  her,  as  he 
thinks,  up  the  stair.  Susan's  face  has  no  need  to  conceal 
her  malicious  joy,  now  his  back  is  turned.  She  is  in  a 
strange  mood,  of  love  and  hatred  mixed.  But,  indeed, 
she  has  never  known  whether  she  most  hated  or  loved 
this  man,  since  the  hour  of  his  treason.  Even  as  she  sat 
beside  him,  his  head  in  her  lap,  rejoicing  at  her  trespass 
on  Lucinda's  field,  the  question  half  rose  in  her  heart, 
"Why  not  a  knife?" 

And  so  she  waits  at  the  stairfoot,  to  hear  what  will  be 
the  outcome.  Her  hair  is  rich,  falling  now  in  a  tangle 
about  her  shoulders,  and  fluctuating  on  her  bosom  in  the 
unsteady  candle-light.  In  the  daytime,  close-braided  and 
bidden  by  a  coif,  it  only  half  tells  what  the  village  beauty 
was  in  those  old  days.  Now  its  rich  confusion  makes  a 
setting  to  the  unfaltering  gleam  of  those  eyes,   steely- 


2G2  AjS^  affair  OF  DISHONOR 

cruel  with  a  blueness  that  is  almost  green,  to  the  lips 
that  patiently  await  a  smile  of  pleasure  at  a  coming 
sound. 

It  comes  with  an  exclamation  from  above,  which  may 
be,  not  unlikely,  a  curse  for  herself  for  her  misleading  in- 
formation. Then  Sir  Oliver  is  back  again,  seeing  only 
that  she  has  been  mistaken  in  her  hearing,  not  for  one 
moment  suspecting  Lucinda's  absence  from  the  house.  He 
is  unsteady  in  his  walk,  and  wrathful  in  his  speech. 

"  Fool  of  a  woman,"  says  he,  "  to  send  me  such  a  goose- 
chase  !  Your  mistress  is  below.  Come  you  and  bring  the 
light."  For  where  else  can  Lucinda  be,  since  her  voice 
has  been  heard  outside  the  room  she  was  in  last?  Sir 
Oliver  swings  angrily  down  the  wide  stair,  reeling  more 
than  once,  and  makes  for  the  kitchen.  The  thought  in 
his  mind  is  that  Lucinda,  impatient  of  the  wearisome 
operation  of  the  tinder-box,  has  run  for  a  light  to  the 
kitchen-fire,  and  will  be  found  kindling  a  flame  with  the 
bellows  from  the  smouldering  log  on  the  hearth.  Yet 
wdien  he  enters  the  kitchen,  expecting  to  hear  the  flap  of 
the  bellows — before  Mrs.  Trant,  who  is  behind  him,  can 
show  the  light — there  is  no  sound,  and  the  taper's  light 
flickers  on  an  empty  room.  But  so  confident  has  he  been, 
that  he  speaks  into  the  darkness  as  he  pushes  the  door 
open :  "  Why,  my  girl ! — What,  Lucy ! — What,  all  in  the 
dark  ?  .  .  . "  and  then  stops  suddenly,  with,  "  What  has 
got  the  wench?  Where  can  she  be?"  He  shuts  his  lips 
determinedly  on  his  resolve  to  find  her,  and,  taking  the 
candle  from  Mrs.  Trant,  goes  quickly,  becoming  steadier 
as  he  walks,  to  each  unvisited  room  of  the  house  in  turn. 
When  he  has  entered  the  last  one  in  vain — it  was  the  great 
untenanted  ballroom  where  Susan  Trant  had  bewitched 
John  Rackham — he  turns  to  the  woman  who  has  followed 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  263 

him  and  says — this  time  with  more  of  terror  than  anger  in 
speech  half-articulate  from  the  injury  to  his  mouth — 
^'  Where  can  she  be  ?  '^  With  the  constant  disappoint- 
ment of  each  time  not  finding  her,  the  longing  grows  and 
grows  of  once  more  holding  the  hand,  once  more  touching 
the  lips  he  thinks  he  has  not  lost,  once  more  hearing  their 
words  of  forgiveness  of  his  sin.  For  it  was  no  murder. 
Lucinda  now  feels,  believes,  knows,  that  it  was  no 
murder. 

'^My  lady  has  never  gone  to  the  stables.  'Tis  the  one 
place  left  now." 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Susan  Trant ! ''  was  all  Oliver  had  to 
say  to  this.  But  he  paused  for  thought  a  moment,  and 
at  the  end  of  it  was  minded  to  think  his  speech  was  rash. 
For  the  tale  of  John  Rackham,  which  his  fit  had  beaten 
aside  for  a  while,  came  back  to  him  now.  How  if  Lucinda 
had  heard  the  groom  moving  about — for  he  would  often 
rise  in  the  night,  perhaps  thinking  to  surprise  some  witch 
tampering  with  the  horses — and  had  purposed  to  get  from 
him  some  further  light  on  the  duel  story?  It  was  more 
than  probable.  Yes!  that  was  the  solution  of  the 
mystery.  His  heart  had  become  quite  light  over  it. 
^^  Xo — for  once  you  are  no  fool,"  said  he.  '^  That  is  where 
she  is — the  stables — the  stables !  "  And  it  seemed  all  the 
more  likely  when  he  reached  the  side-door  of  the  house 
that  led  out  to  the  stable-yard,  seeing  it  had  been  left 
open.  For,  indeed,  that  was  the  door  Lucinda  had  opened 
from  within,  over  two  hours  since. 

The  storm  had  passed,  and  left  a  sky  rainless  but  dark, 
with  promise  of  the  moon's  return  from  a  silver  gleam 
upon  the  sea,  when  Oliver  went  shouting  out  into  the  night 
to  find  the  woman  he  sought,  more  sure  than  ever  this 
time  that  he  had  run  his  quarry  home.     "  Lucinda,  Lu- 


264  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

cinda !  Where  art  thou  in  hiding  ?  My  dear — my  love !— ^ 
what's  all  the  tale  about?  John  Eackham,  you  drunken 
knave,  come  out — where  are  you  ? — come  out !  " 

But  for  all  that  he  shouted,  there  came  no  answer. 
Then  was  his  moment  of  bewilderment,  and  it  stunned 
him.  For  till  then  there  had  been  at  each  disappoint- 
ment a  resource  to  turn  to  for  succour.  He  gasped  once 
and  again  as  though  he  would  have  spoken,  then  went 
quickly  to  the  stable,  calling  to  Susan  Trant  to  bring 
the  light,  which  she  did,  shielding  it  carefully  from  the 
wind.  He  had  barely  time  to  make  sure  that  the  stable 
was  empty  of  all  but  one  horse,  and  to  see  that  it  was  the 
groom's  horse,  not  his  own,  when  a  gust  of  wind  blew  out 
the  light.  MrSi  Trant  said,  as  though  no  perplexity  were 
afoot,  "  Never  mind  ! — I  left  another  lighted  within  '' ; 
but  a  shade  more  of  perturbation  would  have  been  better 
policy.  For  Oliver  turned  to  her  furiously,  crying  out, 
"You  jade,  you  know  more  of  this  than  you  tell  of!" 
And  then  ran  away,  shouting,  "  Lucinda,  Lucinda,  where 
are  you?"  So  he  went  through  the  house  again,  from 
room  to  room,  and  then  she  heard  him  so  calling,  along 
the  house-front  and  to  the  paved  yard  where  the  dogs 
ran  out  to  meet  him,  barking,  and  then  round  the  back  of 
the  house  and  farther  afield,  like  a  madman,  still  calling, 
"Lucinda — Lucinda — where  are  you?" 

But  she,  laughing  to  herself,  went  back  the  way  she 
came,  and  found  her  mother  just  awakened,  and  asking 
who  was  calling  without  so  loudly,  and  what  had  taken  her 
from  her  bed  to  be  thus  about  the  house  without  a  light. 
For  she  had  slept  through  the  lighting  of  the  tinder,  to 
be  awakened  by  the  sound  of  Oliver's  voice  at  last.  Thus 
it  is  with  many  deaf  persons,  who  will  sleep  through  the 
firing  of  guns,  to  wake  at  a  word  from  human  lips. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  265      - 

Surely  few  men,  and  fewer  women,  if  any  at  all,  have 
ever  ridden  through  such  weather  as  Lucinda  faced  in  her 
madness  that  night.  The  groom  followed  her  persist- 
ently, thinking  at  the  outset  that  she  would  be  glad  to 
turn  back  of  her  own  accord,  at  the  first  heavy  torrent  of 
rain.  But,  as  it  chanced,  this  lagged  behind  the  first 
outburst  of  the  storm  in  lightning  and  thunder;  and  they 
had  ridden  over  a  mile,  at  speed,  before  it  came.  Then 
Rackham  tried  persuasion.  Would  not  his  mistress,  if 
she  would  not  turn  back,  at  least  consent  to  shelter 
awhile  ?  He  knew  a  shelter  hard  by,  no  great  distance  off 
their  path,  if  she  would  but  take  it  now.  Another  ^ve  or 
ten  minutes,  at  a  like  speed,  and  there  would  be  no  refuge 
of  any  sort  all  through  a  five-mile  ride  over  a  bare  hill- 
side, till  they  should  reach  the  London  Road.  But  he  got 
no  answer  but  a  laugh,  and,  ^^  See  you  lose  not  the  way, 
John  Rackham!  " 

It  was  none  of  his  doing  that  he  parted  with  my  lady — 
this  was  his  tale  afterwards  to  Sir  Oliver — at  the  Cobbler 
with  Two  Wives.  My  lady  would  have  her  will,  and  her 
will  was  that  Sim  Trusslove  should  saddle  and  ride  with 
her  as  far  as  Bury,  and  she  would  give  him  a  guinea  for 
his  pains,  for  bringing  of  him  out  on  such  a  rough  night. 
And  what  could  he,  Rackham,  do  upon  that,  with  my 
lady's  turn  of  speech  with  Sim,  and  a  guinea  to  back  her 
bidding?  Moreover,  my  lady  had  said  to  him  that  he 
must  hasten  back  to  give  help  to  his  master,  seeing  that 
Sir  Oliver  had  fallen  in  another  attack  of  his  malady,  and 
would  want  him  to  be  beside  him  as  before.  But  Rack- 
ham  said  never  a  word — ^trust  him! — of  the  threat  that 
had  brought  him  to  accompany  her  ladyship  in  the  first 
instance. 

He  told  his  story  honestly  enough,  this  one  suppreS' 


2GG  a:n^  affaie  of  dishonor 

sion  apart.  Perhaps  he  was  none  the  less  accurate,  that, 
as  he  told  it,  Susan  Trant's  eye  was  upon  him,  and  he 
was  now  afraid  of  her  at  every  turn.  Each  was  giving  a 
version  of  the  events  of  that  night,  near  upon  thirty-six 
hours  later^  when  Sir  Oliver,  whose  revival  of  any  coherent 
consciousness  or  power  of  judgment  was  even  then  a 
recent  matter,  broke  out  angrily,  saying :  "  An  end  of 
these  lies !  Tell  me  when  my  lady  rode  from  this  house — 
how  long  after  midnight  ?  " 

"  It  w^as  on  the  stroke  of  twelve  I  loosed  the  dogs  for 
the  night.  My  lady  bade  me  saddle  up  the  colt  within 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  .  .  .  When  did  we  ride  away? 
Another  quarter — or  it  might  be  less.  How  else  had  I 
been  back  before  daylight  1 '' 

But  both  bis  hearers  cried  out  together  against  this; 
saying,  how,  then,  could  the  Lady  Lucinda  have  called 
for  a  light  at  near  three  in  the  morning,  seeing  by  that 
time,  if  Rackham's  tale  were  true,  she  must  have  been 
well  on  her  way  to  Bury,  with  young  Sim  Trusslove  for 
escort,  while  Master  Backham  himself  would  have  started 
to  return  to  Kips  Manor;  where,  indeed,  he  had  arrived 
about  five  in  the  morning,  to  find  Sir  Oliver  still  rushing 
about  as  one  mad,  and  seeking  to  find  in  his  bewilder- 
ment some  trace  of  Lucinda  ?  For  had  he  not  heard  her 
voice,  felt  her  touch,  so  short  a  time  before  the  two  of 
them  had  found  the  stable  empty? 

l^ow,  had  Mrs.  Trant  not  ventured  on  that  simulation 
of  Lucinda's  voice,  calling  for  a  light,  and  then  made 
claim  that  she  herself  had  heard  this  voice,  she  might 
have  laid  the  whole  strange,  inexplicable  business  at  the 
door  of  Sir  Oliver's  aberration  of  mind,  following  on  his 
seizure.  For  was  any  man  so  stricken  to  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  all  he  might  fancy  on  recovery?     In  fact, 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOK  267 

when  he  spoke  first  before  Rackham  of  Lucinda's  presence 
with  him  at  so  late  an  hour,  Susan  Trant  had  rashly 
hinted  that  the  whole  thing  was  but  the  illusion  of  a 
dream,  bred  of  the  very  malady  itself.  On  which  Oliver 
had  turned  upon  her  sharply,  saying :  "  Was  it  a  dream, 
too,  that  you  heard  her  call  for  the  light  ? "  To  which 
she,  being  taken  aback — for  she  had  forgotten  her  own 
words — could  say  nothing,  and  could  only  confess  to  a 
complete  bewilderment. 

So,  seeing  that  the  groom  held  firmly  to  his  tale,  and 
that  his  own  conviction  of  Lucinda's  presence  beside  him 
when  his  fit  passed  off  was  too  deep-rooted  to  be  shaken, 
Sir  Oliver  was  near  to  distraction  from  perplexity  and 
feverish  effort  to  get  behind  the  facts  and  find  their 
explanation.  He  got  no  nearer  by  any  pressing  of  the 
groom  and  the  tirewoman  to  vary  in  their  story;  and  as 
for  old  Hatsell,  she  either  could  or  would  say  nothing 
further  than  that  she  had  heard  horses  below  late  over- 
night. Sir  Oliver,  therefore,  after  over  an  hour  of  use- 
less endeavour  for  enlightenment  cut  the  interview 
short,  and  bade  them  all  begone  about  their  business, 
for  that  there  was  never  a  word  of  truth  in  the  tale  of 
any  one  of  them. 

But  then,  as  Mrs.  Trant  and  Rackham  are  waiting  only 
to  be  out  of  his  hearing  to  embark  on  mutual  accusations 
of  falsehoods — he  in  good  faith,  she  in  bad,  for  she  knows 
his  story  true — comes  Sir  Oliver's  voice,  calling  after 
Rackham :  "  Come  back  here,  you,  John.  I  have  some- 
thing yet  to  say  to  you.''  Whereupon  the  groom  goes 
back,  not  over-willingly. 

^^  What's  all  the  tale  of  a  witch-trick  this  woman  has 
played  upon  you,   John  Rackham  ? " 

"Upon  me?" 


268  AX  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

"  Upon  you !  Speak  up  and  make  no  concealments  with, 
me,  man !     You  had  best  not,  for  her  sake  and  yours." 

Whereupon  Rackham,  after  saying  sullenly,  '^  Suppose 
I  tell  you  the  truth  on't,  master !  "  and  getting  for  reply 
a  curt  "  Suppose  you  do !  "  goes  on  to  give  such  an  account 
as  he  may — for  his  brain  is  in  much  confusion  over  the 
whole  story — of  his  first  obsession  or  bewitchment  by 
the  woman  Tratit,  and  what  came  of  it;  always  putting 
the  blame  at  her  door,  and  also  laying  claim  to  having 
kept  back  much  of  the  tale  of  the  duel,  when  compelled 
to  tell  it  to  Lucinda.  That  Trant  was  a  witch,  and  in 
league  with  the  Evil  One,  he  was  convinced — who  could 
doubt  it  ?  For  his  part,  he  should  always  say  Mrs.  Trant 
had  a  hand  in  Sir  Oliver's  own  disorder.  The  reason  of 
his  resentment  against  her,  of  course,  was  that  it  was 
through  her  agency  that  he  had  become  involved  with 
Sir  Oliver,  owing  to  his  disclosure  of  the  duel,  which 
might  else  have  remained  for  long  unknown  to  his  mis- 
tress. Otherwise  he  had  till  now  been  on  reasonably  good 
terms  with  her.  "  But,"  said  Oliver,  "  how  the  Devil 
could  she  make  such  a  fool  of  you  ?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know,"  Rackham  confirmed  and  enlarged  his  story, 
adding:  "Maybe  you've  seen  a  gamecock  hold  his  bill 
to  a  barn-floor,  for  naught  but  a  chalk  line  dow^n  the 
middle  of  it  ?  "  Oliver  answered :  "  Ay,  once  and  again ! 
What  of  that?"  "There  be  the  trick  on't,  Master 
Oliver,"  said  Rackham.  "  Just  that,  and  no  witchcraft — 
that's  her  tale.     But  I  count  her  a  liar." 

Sir  Oliver  kept  silence  as  to  his  own  belief  or  disbelief 
in  the  woman's  alleged  league  with  Satan,  but  his  looks 
were  black  enough  to  warrant  Rackham's  speech  to  her 
when  they  next  met.  "  I  would  make  peace  with  the 
master,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  Mistress  Sukey,  for  fear 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  269 

of  worse/'  To  which  she  said  not  a  word,  but  the  groom 
had  an  impression  that  she  laughed  behind  her  breath. 
And  this  impression  grew  upon  him  in  her  absence,  so 
soon  as  he  had  had  time  to  forget  that  she  had  not  really 
laughed  aloud. 

In  the  evening  that  followed  he  overheard  somewhat 
of  a  stormy  interview  between  Mrs.  Trant  and  Sir  Oliver, 
which  he,  for  his  part,  ascribed  at  first  entirely  to  his 
master's  anger  at  her  share  in  his  own  revelation  about 
the  duel,  whether  it  were  connected  with  witchcraft  or 
a  mere  freak  in  the  natural  law.  But  it  reached  his  slow 
intelligence  as  a  strange  and  noticeable  thing  that 
Susan  Trant's  voice  should  show  so  wild  and  passionate 
a  tone,  rising  strenuously  above  Sir  Oliver's  and,  as  it 
were,  silencing  it.  And,  strangest  of  all,  that  she  should 
address  him  by  a  name  she  never  used  in  the  hearing  of 
the  household.  "  Squire  Ray  don  "  was  quite  unwonted. 
Rackham  heard  enough  to  concoct  in  his  own  mind  a 
story  near  the  truth,  but  not  all  the  truth.  However,  he 
went  very  close  to  assigning  the  true  relations  of  Mrs. 
Trant  and  Sir  Oliver,  honouring  them  with  a  grin  and  a 
dismissal,  as  too  slight  and  usual  a  matter  to  need 
notice. 

For  the  truth  is  that  Oliver,  after  a  day  spent  in  help- 
less chafing  or  mere  morose  silence,  pacing  to  and  fro 
within  the  house,  or  wandering  aimlessly  along  the  shore 
in  the  sea-wind,  had  given  way  to  his  anger  against  this 
woman — an  anger  that  had  grown  with  the  return  of 
vigour  of  mind  and  body  as  the  effects  of  his  seizure 
passed  away.  It  had  always  been  thus  with  him  in  the 
like  case ;  and  when,  after  going  through  the  form  of  being 
served  with  a  dinner  he  scarcely  touched,  he  broke  out 
in  bitter  accusation  and  reproach  against  Mrs.  Trant,  she 


270  AI^  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

was  not  surprised  one  whit,  and  turned  upon  him  in  her 
defence  as  one  ready  armed  at  all  points. 

^^  How  was  I  to  know  the  drunken  knave's  tale  was  a 
true  one?  It  was  none  of  my  choosing  which  of  your 
villainies  he  should  blab  upon.  For  a  villain  you  are, 
Squire  Raydon,  and  who  should  know  it  better  than  I? 
Who  could  have  said  'twas  any  malice  of  mine — ^the  sim- 
ple question,  what  was  the  true  name  of  your  last  victim  ? 
Who  could  have  guessed  there  was  murder  behind  the 
story  of  it?  Yes,  murder!  .  .  ,  Yes,  I  tell  you — 
murder!''   .    .    . 

'^  You  lie,  Susan  Trant ;  before  God,  you  lie !  It  was 
no  murder.  It  was  as  fair  a  duello  as  ever  men  fought 
yet  And  the  challenge  was  his,  you  jade,  the  challenge 
was  his !  "   .    .    . 

The  woman  cut  his  speech  across,  with  swift  detection 
of  its  falsehood.  "  What  choice  did  you  give  him  but  to 
send  it?  Answer  me  that!  Would  you  have  had  him 
submit  to  his  daughter's  dishonor,  and  his  own? — say 
never  a  word  ? — raise  never  a  finger  ?  "   .    .    . 

"  The  girl  was  old  enough  to  know."  .  .  .  Sir  Oliver, 
speaking  thus,  sullen  and  scowling,  but  livid  of  lip  and 
bloodshot  of  eye,  cut  but  a  sorry  figure,  for  all  his  beauty, 
as  he  winced  before  Mrs.  Susan,  who  seemed  to  have  cast 
aside  her  self  of  yesterday,  so  changed  was  she  from  the 
decorous  tirewoman  Lucinda  knew.  It  may  be  that, 
though  the  story  has  not  seen  her  so,  she  would  have 
this  seeming  more  or  less  whenever  none  other  was  by  to 
guess  from  it  her  old  relations  with  Oliver. 

At  his  speech  she  let  fall  the  last  reserve  between 
them,  as  of  master  and  servant,  breaking  into  a  long, 
mocking  laugh,  and  crying  out :  "  Old  enough  to  know ! 
What  girl  is  ever  old  enough  to  know,  till  no  gain  comes 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIS^OR  271 

of  knowledge?  Where  would  you  look  for  your  harvest, 
Squire  Raydon — ^you  and  your  like — if  little  wenches 
could  be  wise  in  season  ?  Old  enough  to  know !  They'll 
never  be  a  penny  the  wiser,  poor  souls,  for  anything  they; 
will  ever  be  learned  by  folk  who  want  them  to  be  ignorant, 
for  to  keep  the  world  a  merry  world,  to  their  liking.  Old 
enough  to  know,  forsooth !  " 

^^  Fool  of  a  woman!  '^  said  Sir  Oliver.  "  She  was  at 
least  old  enough  to  know  Lady  Raydon  was  living.  All 
the  countryside  knows  that." 

Mrs.  Trant  had  a  sharp  answer  ready,  and  was  not  the 
least  afraid  to  utter  it  "Ay,  truly,  she  might  have 
known  you  for  the  scoundrel  you  are,  Squire  Raydon. 
A  girl  is  told  not  to  love  another  girFs  husband — ^they 
are  let  know  that  much.  Rut  they  never  know  the  right 
of  things,  any  more  than  I  did.''  And  she  busied  herself, 
immovably,  over  matters  of  the  table,  while  Oliver  still 
sat  where  he  had  eaten,  his  chair  pushed  back,  a  restless, 
tremulous  hand  wandering  over  a  chin  two  days  un- 
shaved,  or  through  the  rich  locks  Lucinda  once  loved, 
always  glowering  askant  at  the  seeming  unconcerned 
woman.  For  he  was  afraid  of  her,  for  all  his  bluster, 
and  was  half  ready  to  suspect  that  his  delusion  of 
Lucinda's  presence,  when  he  revived  from  his  stupor, 
was  but  another  sample  of  Susan  Trant's  witchcraft.  But 
he  did  not  indulge  this  suspicion  much;  the  vividness  of 
the  impression  had  taken  too  strong  a  hold.  Besides, 
Mrs.  Trant  had  heard  Lucinda's  voice  calling  her,  or 
said  she  had. 

It  was  curious  that  he  should  accept  her  word  on  this 
point;  it  was  such  an  easy  thing  to  say!  But  she  had 
overplayed  her  part,  and  it  was  ill  for  her  that  she  did 
so.     For  all  Oliver's  bitterness  of  feeling  turned  towards 


272  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

her,  and  became  a  congenial  resource  to  countervail  his 
love  for  Lucinda — a  love  of  a  new  sort  that  his  evil  soul 
was  in  revolt  against — a  love  that  might  have  purged 
that  soul  of  its  grossness,  if  he  had  not  dashed  from  his 
lips,  half-tasted,  the  cup  of  his  purification,  suspecting 
it  was  not  unholy.  And  he  formed  in  his  secret  heart  a 
plan  of  revenge.  Susan  Trant  was  a  witch,  and  should 
pay  for  it. 

Therefore,  when,  on  the  following  day,  having  by  then 
had  time  to  recruit  his  shaken  health,  and  to  resolve 
upon  a  course  of  action,  he  rode  away  with  John  Rackham 
to  retrace  his  journey  to  the  New  Hall,  from  which  he 
had  now  been  absent  eight  weeks,  his  first  halt  was  at 
Bury,  the  assizes  town;  his  intent  being  to  lay  an  in- 
formation for  witchcraft  against  Susan  Trant,  knowing 
well  that  such  information,  coming  from  one  who  had 
formerly  been  her  protection  against  a  like  accusation, 
would  have  such  force  that  a  warrant  would  at  once 
issue,  and  that  Mistress  Trant  would  be  clever  indeed  in 
her  defence  if  she  contrived  to  escape  burning  at  the 
stake.  For  in  those  days  the  readiness  of  persons  in 
authority  to  lend  an  ear  to  accusations  of  witchcraft  was 
so  great  that,  of  those  against  whom  they  were  brought, 
few  if  any  escaped;  the  innocent  being  confounded  with 
the  guilty,  and  all  being  subjected  to  torture  to  procure 
evidence  against  themselves  from  their  own  mouths. 
Well  might  Sir  Oliver  feel  confident  that  John  Rack- 
ham's  deposition,  which  he  made  somewhat  grudgingly 
before  the  local  magistrate — giving,  however,  in  the  end 
the  whole  account  of  Mrs.  Trant's  evil  practices  at  his 
expense,  and  stating,  although  he  referred  fairly  enough 
to  the  gamecock  explanation,  that  on  the  occasion  of  his 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  273 

story  to  Lucinda  he  had  himself  seen  more  than  one 
familiar  imp  or  spirit  attendant  on  her — would  be  almost 
enough  by  itself  to  convict;  but  that,  backed  by  his  own 
evidence  of  what  he  had  heard  from  Lucinda,  and  his 
attributing  his  own  malady  to  Susan's  enchantments,  no 
defence  would  have  a  chance.  So  that,  after  both  their 
depositions  had  been  duly  entered  and  formally  sworn 
to.  Sir  Oliver  rode  on  his  way  rejoicing  as  at  a  good  deed 
done,  a  public  duty  performed.  For,  believing  as  he  did 
that  Susan  Trant  was  certainly  in  league  with  evil  pow- 
ers, his  conscience  was  quite  at  ease.  Truly  his  anger 
against  the  woman  may  have  set  the  door  of  his  mind 
ajar  to  this  belief;  but,  once  it  was  well  established,  his 
conscience  jumped  at  it  as  an  easement.  For  this  Oliver 
could  be  a  hypocrite  in  his  own  behalf  on  occasion  shown. 


CHAPTEE  XVI 

There  is  a  room  in  Croxlej  Hall  known  to  this  day  as 
"  Sir  Oliver's  room/'  and  to  this  day  none  knows  why 
it  is  so  called.  Ask  the  man  who  has  grown  old  there  as 
caretaker,  or  his  old  wife,  why  it  is  called  Sir  Oliver's, 
more  than  any  other,  and  neither  will  be  able  to  reply. 
But  the  reader  of  this  narrative  may  guess,  as  its  writer 
has  done,  that  this  room,  looking  out  across  the  lawn 
"where  that  first  epileptic  seizure  came  about,  got  its  name 
from  the  fact,  that  on  his  return  from  Kips  Manor,  it 
was  the  room  its  owner  dwelt  in  throughout  the  day,  not 
allowing  the  shutters  of  any  other  room  to  be  opened, 
all  having  been  closed  during  his  absence.  Such  trifles 
often  print  themselves  on  tradition;  while  things  of  note 
pass  from  the  memories  of  living  men,  even  those  that 
have  touched  them  nearly. 

For  Oliver,  having  ridden  almost  day  and  night  since 
he  started — for  his  epilepsy  never  seemed  to  eat  away 
his  physical  vigour,  only  a  day  or  two  being  necessary 
for  its  complete  reinstatement — arrived  towards  night- 
fall, to  find  the  house  to  all  appearance  deserted.  Failing 
to  make  his  summons  heard  at  the  front  door,  he  turned 
to  the  entrance  of  the  stables,  with  no  better  luck.  For 
his  furious  pulls  at  the  swinging  handle  of  the  gate-bell 
met  with  no  response.  He  could  hear  the  movement  of 
horses  in  the  stable,  and  the  dogs  within  barked  furiously 
in  answer  to  each  fresh  jangle  of  the  bell.  Thereupon  he 
himself  swore  furiously  back  at  them,  but  to  no  good 

274 


AN  AYFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  275 

end.     And,  indeed,  they  were  but  doing  the  duty  they 
were  placed  there  to  do. 

But  no  man  lives  in  a  house  from  his  boyhood  that 
keeps  not  some  secret  corner  in  his  mind  that  he  can 
enter  by,  on  a  pinch,  though  every  bolt  and  bar  that 
others  know  be  closed  against  him.  John  Rackham 
could  get  in,  he  would  wager,  round  by  the  l^un's 
Postern,  if  he  had  not  gone  too  full  in  the  girth  since  he 
was  a  lad  of  sixteen,  four-and-forty  years  agone.  And 
he  got  into  the  house  somehow,  Oliver  knew  not  how; 
for  he  waited  for  him  at  the  front-door,  chafing,  and  now 
and  then  breaking  roundly  into  execrations,  till  he  heard 
bolt  and  bar  shot  back  within;  and  then  the  great  door 
stood  wide,  and  the  dark  and  silent  house  was  open  to 
him;  with  John  Rackham,  somewhat  frayed  as  to  gar- 
ments by  his  burglarious  entry,  but  otherwise  unmoved, 
the  only  soul  to  be  seen.  Then  the  two  of  them  went 
about  in  the  basement,  and  presently  found  old  Mrs. 
Langdon,  the  housekeeper,  who  had  been  left  in  charge, 
sound  asleep  in  her  room,  and,  as  it  were,  torpid  with 
overmuch  good  living  and  too  scant  employment.  Who, 
when  fully  aroused,  was  in  great  amazement  at  the 
sudden  home-coming  of  the  master.  Why  had  he  not 
sent  on  a  messenger  beforehand,  that  she  might  have 
known,  to  have  all  in  readiness  for  him;  and  her  niece 
back  from  the  village,  and  Rachel  Anstiss  to  wait  upon 
my  lady,  and  sundry  others  who  had  gone  elsewhere 
for  the  time,  with  or  without  preconcert  and  leave  given 
by  the  employer?  But  she  would  soon  have  the  house 
in  some  order  now,  so  soon  as  ever  her  son  should  return. 
This  was  the  young  undergroom  who  had  ridden  back 
from  Kips  Manor  with  two  pack-horses,  near  two 
months  since.     She  was  voluble,  and  made  as  though  to 


276  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

go  and  find  her  mistress,  whom  she  took  to  be  awaiting 
Sir  Oliver  in  the  entry,  or  elsewhere. 

But  Sir  Oliver  would  have  none  of  that,  saying  the 
Lady  Lucinda  was  not  come,  and  would  not  come  yet 
awhile.  And  till  she  came,  not  a  shutter  of  the  whole 
house  would  he  have  opened,  and  it  would  be  the  worse 
for  whomsoever  should  open  one  contrary  to  his  bidding. 
All  but  his  own  sleeping-room,  and  the  little  room  named 
the  Russet  Room,  where  he  would  live  and  have  his 
meals  till  the  coming  of  the  Lady  Lucinda,  which  would 
not  be  long.  Of  whose  return  in  the  end  he  spoke  with 
a  confidence  for  which  he  had,  as  the  story  knows,  no 
warranty.  But  it  imposed  on  the  household  and  perhaps 
on  Oliver  himself,  and  enabled  him  to  make  some  parade 
of  the  temporary  nature  of  his  arrangement,  that  he  took 
this  Russet  Room  for  his  living-room,  and  would  have  no 
other.  There  for  some  while  he  passed  his  days  in  gloomy, 
solitude,  seldom  leaving  the  house  till  after  nightfall,  and 
charging  those  of  the  household  who  returned  to  his 
service  to  keep  silence  about  his  home-coming,  and  deny 
him  to  all  who  came  to  seek  him.  And  so  the  days  passed 
for  him,  brooding  constantly  over  his  separation  from 
Lucinda,  angrily  resenting  the  domination  of  this  new 
power  that  forbade  him  laugh  at  this  miscarriage  of  his 
connection  with  one  mistress,  and  go  afield  to  seek  new 
pleasures  and  find  forgetfulness.  Why  should  he  not 
make  light  of  it,  and  brush  Lucinda  aside,  as  he  had 
found  it  so  easy  to  do  before,  with  such  a  many  ? 

He  could  not.  He  could  not  even  resolve  to  return 
to  the  centres  of  gaiety  and  gallantry — to  the  vortex 
of  profligacy  that  circled  round  the  throne  of  a  witty  and 
worthless  monarch;  witty  and  worthless  albeit  lovable — 
none  denied  that.     He  wavered  continually  betwixt  re- 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHO^s^OE  277      = 

solves  to  leave  Croxley  Hall  forthwith  for  London,  and 
counter-resolves  to  wait  on  vaguely  in  a  groundless  hope 
that  the  woman  he  had  lost  through  his  own  folly  would 
come  back  to  him  of  her  own  accord.  He  could  not  bring 
himself  to  believe  that  this  strange  yearning  for  her,  a 
longing  he  had  never  felt  the  like  of  before,  could  exist 
without  some  corresponding  feeling  in  her  own  heart. 
And  all  the  while  he  was  angry  with  this  usurpation  of 
his  rights  over  himself,  which  had  come  upon  him  in  his 
own  despite,  and  dictated  loss  of  precious  hours  he  might 
have  spent  in  pleasure. 

He  could  and  did  learn,  without  direct  inquiry,  that 
Lucinda  was  again  at  the  Old  Hall,  with  her  brother. 
John  E-ackham  could  tell  him  this  much,  from  gossip 
overheard.  In  a  few  days,  too,  came  Rachel  Anstiss, 
confirming  this.  Hearing  that  Lucinda  was  again  at  the 
Old  Hall,  she  had  applied  there  to  know  if  her  services 
would  be  required,  and  had  met  with  no  encouragement, 
though  scarcely  with  a  rebuff.  She  had  then  come  on  to 
the  New  Hall,  hoping  for  better  fortune  by  an  application 
to  Sir  Oliver,  and  was  not  disappointed. 

"  It  may  be  a  little  time,"  he  said,  "  before  my  lady 
returns.  Doubtless  she  is  well  provided  for  the  time 
being,  but  when  she  comes  back  she  will  need  a  tire- 
woman, and  will  scarcely  make  a  new  arrangement  with- 
out my  consent,  however  confident  she  may  be  of  it  in 
the  end."  Now,  in  saying  this  much,  Oliver  outwent  the 
familiarity  he  would  have  shown  to  a  mere  domestic 
under  other  circumstances,  for  the  pleasure  his  o^vn  voice 
gave  him  in  taking  Lucinda's  return  for  granted.  And 
Rachel,  a  liar  herself,  could  accept  what  she  knew  to  be 
a  lie  as  true,  and  did  it  so  deftly  that  it  deceived  Sir 
Oliver;  and  thereon  he  was  mightily  well  pleased  with 


278  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

himself,  and  almost  believed  for  the  moment  that  Lucinda 
would  come.  But  Rachel,  going  away  to  the  kitchen, 
said :  "  My  lady  This,  and  my  lady  That,  forsooth !  This 
one  comes  not  back; — who  will  be  the  next  one?  ... 
How  come  I  to  know  she  comes  not  back?  Why — by 
the  master's  word  his  heart  spoke,  whatever  way  his 
tongue  wagged.     Any  cradle-babe  could  speak  to  that." 

But  she  brought  from  the  Old  Hall  other  gossip,  and  it 
reached  Oliver.  Some  three  weeks  agone  all  the  house- 
hold had  been  roused  from  sleep  by  a  piercing  cry  of  a 
horsewoman  who  rode  apace  into  the  forecourt,  about 
three  in  the  morning,  and  the  new  Squire  was  barely  in 
time  to  catch  his  sister,  Mistress  Lucy,  as  she  fell  forward ; 
having  dismounted  and  made  shift  to  keep  afoot  till  he 
could  come,  he  having  called  to  her  from  his  window 
above  to  be  of  good  heart  but  for  a  moment,  and  he  would 
be  with  her.  And  how  he  bore  her  in  and  she  lay  to  all 
seeming  dead  with  the  great  stress  of  her  fatigue.  For 
she  had  ridden  hard  three  days,  with  barely  food  or  sleep' 
enough  to  keep  life  in  her,  dismissing  her  last  guide  or 
escort  as  soon  as  she  came  to  familiar  ground;  when,  her 
own  horse  having  broken  down,  she  exchanged  it  for  his, 
telling  him  to  lead  it  to  a  village  at  hand,  and  say  to  the 
host  of  the  Three  Sheaves  that  it  was  Lucy  Mauleverer's ; 
who  upon  that  would  give  him  shelter  and  his  keep  till 
she  could  return  his  own  horse  to  him.  Further,  Oliver 
could  gather  that  Lucinda  was  for  many  days  insensible 
or  delirious,  and  at  first  Vincent,  her  brother,  was  in 
despair  of  her  recovery,  fearing  that,  if  she  lived,  she 
would  at  the  least  lose  her  reason.  But  that  by  now  she 
was  recovered  so  far  as  to  leave  her  room,  and  even  ta 
take  some  part  in  what  there  was  of  life  at  the  Old  Hall, 
though  speaking  little,  and  very  pale  and  still,  so  that 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  279 

slie  scarcely  seemed  herself  to  many  who  knew  her  well 
a  year  since. 

All  this,  as  Oliver  heard  it  piecemeal,  gave  him  a  true 
enough  image  of  the  state  of  things  at  the  Old  Hall;  but 
for  many  days  after  his  arrival  no  news  of  it  reached 
Lucinda  and  Vincent,  who  was  now  fully  recognised  and 
installed  as  his  father's  heir  and  representative,  though  in 
bitter  grief  for  his  father's  death,  and  living  in  retirement, 
mixing  no  more  with  his  neighbours  and  such  local  matters 
as  called  for  him  than  was  an  obligation  of  duty  and 
courtesy.  That  the  fatal  ending  of  the  duel  should  be 
generally  accepted  by  aU  who  had  concern  in  the  affairs 
of  the  family  was  but  a  part  of  the  wild  and  disordered 
time.  When  it  is  considered  that  at  the  date  of  this 
story  but  four  years  had  passed  since  a  Parliament  was 
dispersed  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  that  boys  not 
come  of  age  might  still  remember  a  scaffold  in  Whitehall 
dripping  with  the  blood  of  a  beheaded  Monarch,  while  the 
memory  of  a  devastating  Civil  War  was  still  fresh  in  the 
minds  of  all  men,  this  seeming  apathy  of  judicial  power 
in  the  case  of  one  fatal  duel  seems  not  to  call  for  special 
explanation.  And  the  less  so,  that  the  right  of  Law  to 
interpose  upon  the  ordeal  of  battle  was  then  looked  upon 
with  jealousy,  so  long  as  all  due  observance  of  chivalrous 
rule  was  shown;  and  indeed  this  jealousy  is  by  no  means 
dead  in  our  own  time.  Add  to  this,  that  this  feeling  ran 
strongest  in  the  very  class  to  which  Ralph  Mauleverer 
belonged,  the  class  proudest  of  its  ancestry,  even  vain- 
glorious of  its  deeds  of  blood  so  long  as  Honour  was 
unstained.  When  the  Deputy  Sheriff,  who  was  a  Round- 
head, made  some  show  of  a  move  toward  calling  Sir 
Oliver  Raydon  the  Royalist  to  account,  he  met  with  no 
sympathy  from   the  friends   of   Squire   Mauleverer,   all 


280  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHON^OR 

Royalist  also  to  the  backbone.  Even  the  slain  man's 
second,  though  he  more  than  suspected  that  when  the 
fatal  thrust  was  given  old  Ralph  was  hampered  by  a 
wound  that  should  have  parted  the  combatants,  would 
lend  no  help  to  a  canting,  psalm-singing  accomplice  in  the 
murder  of  his  King.  So  the  matter  dropped,  and  bid  fair 
to  be  forgotten.  But  when  Vincent  reappeared  from 
Virginia,  there  were  those  who  looked  to  hear  more  of  it 
as  soon  as  Sir  Oliver  should  be  forthcoming  to  answer  a 
challenge. 

But  no  news  of  Sir  Oliver's  return  to  Croxley  Thorpe 
reached  the  Old  Hall  till  many  days  later.  For  of  all  per- 
versities, the  worst  is  that  of  Rumour,  who  will  often  keep 
silence  against  all  reason  on  matters  close  at  hand,  even 
while  she  tells  of  things  afar  almost  before  they  come  to 
pass.  The  news  came  in  the  end.  Heaven  knows  how; 
and  when  Vincent  told  his  sister  of  it  he  had  no  better 
answer  ready  to  her  inquiry,  how  was  this  thing  known, 
than  that  there  seemed  to  be  no  doubt  of  the  fact.  But 
the  question  was  soon  set  at  rest,  for  Rachel  Anstiss  came 
again  to  the  Old  Hall — she  being  near  of  kin  to  the  lodge- 
keeper — telling  how  she  had  taken  service  again  with  Sir 
Oliver,  and  talking  always  as  though  Lucinda's  return 
was  held  certain  at  Croxley.  But  she  got  no  speech  of 
Lucinda,  though  it  may  easily  be  she  had  received  instruc- 
tions from  her  master  to  bring  back  all  the  news  she  could 
glean  of  her  mistress's  health  and  future  plans,  for  all 
that  she  made  no  claim  to  be  the  bearer  of  any  message. 

Thus  it  came  about  that  same  evening  that  Vincent  and 
his  sister,  being  alone  together  in  the  twilight,  and  no 
lights  as  yet  in  the  great  drawing-room,  he  spoke  again  to 
her  of  this  arrival  of  her  lover  as  a  certainty,  and  of  the 
reason  he  came  to  know  it.    But,  as  though  he  would  not 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOKOE  281 

peer  into  her  mind  on  the  hearing  of  it,  he  never  looked 
round  from  the  window  recess,  where  he  stood  watching 
out  the  last  embers  of  a  stormy  sunset.  Yet  he  need  not 
have  been  so  nice,  for  Lucinda  never  changed  colour  nor 
lost  self-command,  sitting  always  at  the  clavichord  in 
the  "half -light,  touching  it  now  and  again  as  the  fancy  took 
her.  Presently  she  spoke,  never  faltering  at  all,  but  as 
one  at  ease. 

"  You  saw  the  woman,  Yincey  ?  The  woman  Anstiss, 
I  mean?" 

Then,  hearing  a  voice  so  well  in  control,  Yincent  left  the 
window  and  sat  by  the  harpsichord.  "  I  saw  her  and 
talked  with  her,"  said  he.  "  She  is  again  in  service 
with — ^with  hi7n;  in  some  false  hope,  as  I  gather,  of  your 
return." 

"  You  told  her  ?  "  She  paused  on  a  chord,  having 
touched  one  lightly. 

"  Oh  yes — made  it  quite  clear." 

"  She  knows  the  story  ?  " 

"  Darling  girl ! — all  folk  know  the  story,  or  know  one 
half  of  it  and  guess  the  other.  But  she  seems  to  have 
helped  this  false  hope  by  what  I  suppose  to  be  a  mis- 
taken interpretation   of   something  she   has   noticed — in 

"  Of  something  she  has  noticed  ?  .  .  . "  She  paused 
inquiringly^  but  struck  the  chord  her  fingers  had  waited 
for,  gently. 

"  Yes.  But  I  only  half  like  talking  of  it,  dear 
child.    ..." 

^^  I  do  not  mind  it.  Tell  me !  "  And  again  she  struck 
the  harpsichord. 

"  Anstiss  imagines  that  .  .  .  that  he  is  brooding  over 
your  absence,  and  himself  believes  you  will  return.     She 


282  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO^s^OR 

describes  him  as  either  walking  purposelessly  to  and  fro 
on  the  terrace,  or  dwelling  on  certain  letters,  which  she  is 
confident  are  in  your  writing;  and  though  she  cannot 
read,  or  but  a  little,  she  would  be  quick  to  identify  it — all 
the  quicker,  perhaps,  that  she  sees  not  the  many  hand- 
writings there  be  that  are  like  it.  .  .  .  What  I  mean — 
what  I  should  say — is,  she  would  think  it  yours  the 
quicker  from  little  note  taken  of  others  like  it.  .  .  .  O 
Lucy! — what?  ..."  For  her  hands  had  fallen  from 
the  keys,  making  a  discord,  and  he  could  see  from  the  rise 
and  fall  of  her  bosom  that  her  tranquillity  had  broken 
down  at  the  hearing  of  something  he  had  said. 

"  Oh,  Vincey,  darling  boy,  do  you  not  see  ?  It  is  his 
love — his  love  that  breaks  my  heart  1 ''  And  then  she 
started  from  her  seat;  and,  as  he  rose,  fell  into  his 
arms  weeping  bitterly.  And  then  Vincent  saw  there 
was  a  thing  he  had  not  understood — a  thing  it  is  not 
given  to  many  men  to  understand  at  all;  a  something 
of  the  nature  of  a  woman's  love.  For  he  had  thought 
that  it  would  die  outright  in  her  heart,  this  love  for  a  man 
who  had  slain  a  father  such  as  theirs.  Could  he  have 
found  it  in  him  to  speak  the  words,  he  would  have  be- 
sought his  sister  to  crush  out  all  that  was  left  of  her  love 
for  a  murderer,  and  help  him  to  his  retribution.  But  he 
could  not  draw  his  sword  against  him  with  that  cry  in 
his  ears  from  a  sister's  heart,  telling  of  a  love  that  refused 
to  die.  And  he  knew  it,  even  while  the  ring  of  Oliver's 
steel  upon  his  own  would  have  been  the  sweetest  sound 
his  ears  could  hear.  And  what  had  his  compact  with 
Oliver  been?  True,  Lucinda  had  thrust  him  from  her — 
had  left  him  for  good  and  all.  But  how  act  on  the  mere 
letter  of  their  parting  only  while  the  spirit  of  Lucinda'a 
love  remained?     So  he  said  nothing  for  a  while,  only 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  283 

giving  such  consolation  as  he  might,  which  was  but  little; 
and  yet  something,  for  she  loved  this  brother  dearly. 

Then,  when  she  was  calmer,  he  spoke,  referring  again 
to  these  letters  Anstiss  spoke  of.  "  Had  you  written  him 
a  many  letters,  little  Lucy  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Not  such  a  many !  '^  she  replied,  but  not  at  once.  And 
then  she  made  a  kind  of  little  undersound  with  closed 
lips,  as  of  consideration,  and  said  further:  "No  such 
number  as  one  might  have  thought,  seeing  all  things. 
Nor  long  ones,  neither,  for  that  matter." 

"  But  thou  hast  written  him  long  letters,  Lucy  mine  ?  " 

"  What  is  a  long  letter,  Vincey  darling  ?  One  wrote  o' 
both  sides?" 

"  Indeed,  a  good  penman  might  call  that  but  a  short 
letter  at  best.  Three  pages  o'  both  sides,  little  girl! 
That's  a  long  letter !  " 

Lucinda's  head  was  lying  on  her  brother's  shoulder 
with  eyes  closed,  as  with  fatigue  of  grief,  as  she  answered 
languidly :  "  I  never  wrote  so  long  a  letter  to  him,  .  .  . 
.What,  Vincey?" 

"Why  what,  darling?" 

"  Because  you  gave  such  a  jump."  For  Vincent  had 
started,  for  a  reason  we  shall  see.  But  he  made  light  of 
it  then,  saying  a  great  fly  had  struck  his  eye.  Also  the 
hoofs  of  a  horse  rang  on  the  stones  of  the  forecourt.  It 
was  Roger  Locke,  the  foster-brother,  for  whom  they  had 
been  awaiting  supper. 

"  How  comes  the  woman  to  be  so  sure  this  letter  was 
Lucy's  ?  "  Roger  Locke  asked  this  question,  as  he  sat 
with  Vincent  after  meat,  Lucinda  having  left  them, 
meaning  to  lie  down — not  from  any  custom  then  prac- 
tised, but  from  sheer  weariness  of  soul  and  body  alike. 


284  AI^  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOj^OR 

"  The  woman  Anstiss  ?  '^  answered  Vincent.  "  Why — 
she  admitted,  when  I  pressed  her  to  tell  me  truth,  without 
reserve,  that  she  had  taken  advantage  of  his  absence  to 
read  the  signature  of  the  letter,  which  he  had  left  open  on 
his  table.  I  suppose  he  thought  she  could  not  read,  but 
she  could  read  that  much,  though  what  came  before 
puzzled  her."  Oliver's  name,  take  note,  was  rarely  men- 
tioned by  either.     It  was  always  "  him  ''  or  "  he.'' 

"  And  this  was  a  letter  of  three  sheets,  and  our  Lucy 
says  she  never  wrote.    .    .    ." 

"  Never  wrote  him  ?   .    .    . " 

"  Yes — never  wrote  him  more  than  a  sheet  at  most." 

Vincent  inclined  his  head.  "  So  she  says,"  said  he. 
But  he  sat  watching  Roger,  as  though  he  expected  more. 

"  Why  do  you  look  so,  Vin  ?  "  said  Roger. 

"  Because,  dear  Roger,  I  have  an  idea  in  my  head,  and 
I  would  fain  know  if  it  is  in  yours  also." 

"  An  idea  ?  " 

"  Roger,  think  a  moment  on  this.  How  many  sheets 
were  there  in  that   ..." 

"...  That  letter  to  her  father  ?  Her  own  beginning, 
on  the  w^rapper,  and  three  blank  sheets   .    .    .    !  " 

"  Have  we  ever  explained  it  ?  " 

"N-o!" 

"  I  see  it  now." 

"  So  do  I.  My  God ! — ^what  a  miscreant  he  is !  "  For 
the  story  of  that  letter  was  clear  to  both  as  soon  as  the 
clue  was  given — the  three-sheet  letter  in  Lucinda's  hand- 
writing, still  in  possession  of  her  betrayer. 

The  next  day  passed,  and  the  next,  and  on  the  morning 
of  the  third  Roger  said  to  Vincent :  "  We  have  to  make 
up  our  minds,  Vin." 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOJS^OE  285 

"Whether  the  letter  shall  or  shall  not  be  shown  to 
Lucy?" 

"  Ay !  I  was  against  it  at  first,  whatever  the  explana- 
tion was.    I  am  not  so  sure,  now  we  know." 

But  Vincent  seemed  in  great  doubt.  "  Would  it  not 
be  mere  cruelty,"  said  he,  "to  put  upon  her  the  pain  of 
knowing  the  full  scope  of  his  wickedness;  with  little 
chance,  to  my  thinking,  of  her  love  for  him  coming  to 
an  end.  Oh,  Eoger,  you  but  half  know  the  strength  of 
her  infatuation." 

"  We  have  been  of  an  age  from  the  cradle,  Lucy  and  I, 
and  I  know  her  heart  as  though  she  were  my  twin.  Give 
her  this  knowledge  that  these  papers  Anstiss  tells  of  are 
not,  as  she  thinks,  her  own  old  letters  kept  and  re-read 
for  love  of  her  by  this  damned  traitor,  but  the  very  words 
she  wrote  to  her  father,  not  knowing  him  slain.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Vincent,  all  her  love  would  turn  to  hate.    ..." 

"Yea — but  our  Lucy — our  Lucy!  Would  she  be  the 
happier?  It  would  be  a  joyful  day  for  me — for  you — 
that  left  us  free  to  deal  with  him,  not  that  you  stand 
pledged  as  I  do.   .    .    ." 

"  I  hold  myself  pledged,  by  your  wish,"  said  Eoger. 

"  And  mine  is  the  prior  right,  dear  Eoger — the  right  of 
blood.  She  is  mine  own  sister,  and  he  who  lies  dead  .  .  . 
was  my  father."  He  could  speak  again,  a  moment  later, 
and  went  on :  "  But  Lucy — Lucy — ^^vould  she  be  the  hap- 
pier— to  hate  him  ?  " 

"  Will  she  ever  learn  to  love  any  other,  if  she  learns  not 
to  hate  himf  No,  Vincent! — better  far  she  should  know 
the  whole  truth,  cost  what  it  may,  than  fill  her  mind  with 
a  false  conceit  of  him,  wide  of  his  true  villainy.  Tell  her 
the  truth,  I  say,  and  risk  it." 

"  Hush ! — she  is  coming,"  said  Vincent.    But  he  spoke 


286  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOJ^OR 

a  few  seconds  too  late;  for  that  day,  towards  sundown, 
comes  Lucy  to  him,  seeing  him  alone  in  the  garden,  and 
says :  "  What  was  it  'twixt  you  and  Roger  this  morning 
that  you  spoke  so  earnestly  and  so  long  ? '' 

'^  We  speak  very  little  but  of  one  thing,  Lucy.  It  would 
be  that." 

"Then  it  was  something  not  aforetold  by  the  manner 
of  your  speech,  dear  Vincent.     Tell  it  me  now." 

Then  Vincent  cast  about  in  his  mind  whether  it  would 
not  be  best,  after  all,  for  Lucinda  to  know  the  whole  story, 
all  the  more  for  her  resolute  self-command  and  seeming 
readiness,  if  need  were,  to  face  worse  than  had  come  to 
her  yet.  But,  indeed,  when  she  saw  him  hesitate  in  per- 
plexity, she  pressed  all  the  more  to  be  told  the  thing  he 
stuck  about  the  telling  of,  and  left  him  no  chance  of  escape. 
So  says  he  to  her,  "  Wait  a  moment  till  I  return,"  and  goes 
away;  but  comes  back  presently  bearing  three  or  four 
sheets  of  letter-paper  folded,  whereof  he  opens  one,  and, 
handing  it  to  her,  says,  "  Lucy,  what  is  that  ?  " 

She  takes  it  from  him,  with  a  new  terror  in  her  heart, 
she  knows  not  of  what.  Then,  seeming  merely  puzzled, 
turns  to  her  brother,  saying,  "  This  is  the  letter  I  wrote 
to  our  father.  It  came  here  after.  Why  not  ?  "  But 
the  terror  is  coming  in  her  voice. 

Says  Vincent  then,  putting  his  arm  about  her :  "  Ay — 
Lucy!  It  came  here  after.  But  where  be  the  second 
sheet,  and  the  third  ?  " 

"  He  knows  best  who  opened  it.  It  was  before  your 
coming.     Roger — was  it  not  ?  " 

"  Roger  opened  it,  and  found  naught  but  what  you  have 
there,  and  these  three  blank  sheets." 

She  took  them  from  him,  turning  them  either  way,  as 
though  there  might  be  writing.     And  tlien^  with  a  great 


AlSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOKOE  287       - 

effort  to  be  collected,  says  quickly :  "  I  gave  this  letter  to 
...  to  him  ...  to  despatch  for  the  post.  And  I 
saw  it  in  the  hands  of  John  Eackham  the  groom,  as  he 
rode  away.  Yes — and  I  had  seen  it  near,  in  his  hands,  as 
he  mounted  to  ride."  She  says  this,  clinging  to  her 
brother,  her  breath  coming  short ;  and  then,  "  O  merciful 
God,  what  is  this?  Oh,  tell  me,  Vincent — tell  me 
straight.'' 

"  You  saw  the  sheet  with  the  writing,  Lucy.  But  it 
was  folded  with  these  other  three  and  sealed.  See  how 
they  held  together,  bent  across.'' 

She  took  the  blank  sheets  mechanically,  adjusting  the 
letter's  first  folding  with  a  trembling  hand.  And  there, 
plain  to  be  seen,  was  each  pinch  and  crease  of  the  paper 
fitting  true  in  its  place.  She  spoke  wander ingly.  "  My 
head  goes,"  she  said.  "  Was  it  the  groom  who  took  my 
letter  from  the  cover?  How  could  he  break  the  seal? 
I  made  the  seal  myself." 

"  The  seal  was  never  broken,  Lucy.  How  'twas  done 
I  know  not,  if  you  made  the  seal.  But  your  three  sheets 
of  writing  were  removed  to  make  way  for  that  blank 
paper,  before  ever  a  seal  was  there  to  close  it.  And  the 
reason  for  doing  it  was  that  none  here  might  know  whence 
it  came  to  tell  you  of  our  father's  death.  For,  see — ^there 
is  no  place  named  in  the  writing." 

"  And  what  has  come  of  the  three  sheets  I  wrote  ?  " 

Vincent,  in  fear  of  the  effect  of  what  he  had  to  say, 
paused  for  a  moment;  then  he  said,  steadily  and  clearly: 
"  Rachel  Anstiss  saw  them,  in  the  hands  of  the  man  that 
had  removed  them."  But  his  words  seemed  to  carry  no 
meaning  to  Lucinda's  mind.  She  looked  dazed,  repeating 
vaguely,  "  The  man  that  had  removed  them  ?  "  On  which 
Vincent  said,  "Yes — the  man  that  had  removed  them. 


288  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE 

Oliver  Eaydon."  Thereupon  Liicinda  seemed  to  come 
suddenly  to  the  meaning  of  it  all,  and,  giving  a  loud  cry, 
fell.  But  her  brother's  arm  was  round  her,  and  he  caught 
her,  and,  lifting  her,  bore  her  into  the  house,  and  laid 
her  on  a  couch  in  the  great  drawing-room. 

For  a  day  or  more  she  was  half  delirious,  walking  con- 
stantly about  alone,  talking  with  herself,  ghastly  pale  and 
wild  of  eye.  Then  came  a  quieter  time,  the  effects  of  this 
last  shock  dying  down,  and  at  last  one  of  greater  self- 
command  and  a  sad  peace.  She  spoke  of  the  past  with 
her  brother  and  foster-brother  with  no  more  pain  than  it 
would  have  cost  her  to  keep  silent;  and  her  remembrance 
of  the  writing  of  her  letter,  and  Oliver's  carrying  of  it 
away  to  seal  made  all  his  infamous  deception  plain,  and 
went  as  near  to  killing  all  trace  of  love  for  him  in  her 
heart  as  may  be  in  any  heart  that  does  not  turn  easily  to 
hatred.  Though  many  hold  that  in  no  woman's  heart  can 
love  ever  be  slain  outright,  even  though  hate  be  ready 
with  a  helping  hand. 


CHAPTEK  XVII 

It  might  have  been  well  for  Sir  Oliver  if,  in  one  of  his 
fits  of  wavering  between  remaining  longer  at  Croxley  Hall 
and  departing  at  once  for  London,  he  had  decided  on 
choosing  the  latter  course.  But  he  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  a  final  renunciation — for  it  seemed  to  him  it  would 
amount  to  that — of  his  last  hope  of  Lucinda.  She  had 
touched  him  to  the  quick,  and,  selfish  as  his  longing  for 
her  was  still,  a  tiny  seed  had  germinated  in  the  rich  soil  of 
his  selfishness,  which,  had  an  earlier  weed-growth  allowed 
it,  might  have  reached  the  sun  and  upper  air,  and  given 
his  soul  a  chance  of  life.  But  it  was  thus  with  him,  that 
he  was  half-angered  with  himself  for  knowing  how  he 
loved  her,  and  impatient  to  be  able  to  fling  the  memory 
of  her  aside,  even  as  that  of  so  many  another. 

By  fits  and  starts  he  persuaded  himself  that  that 
seeming  presence  of  Lucinda — touch  and  voice  alike — 
that  came  with  his  reviving  consciousness  after  his  last 
fit,  was  no  more  than  a  breath  drawn  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  dream-world,  when  all  its  substance  had  passed 
away.  And  then  his  mind^s  reaction  would  decide  that 
it  must  have  been  real,  for  there  was  always  that  per- 
plexity of  Susan  Trant's  tinder-box!  How  came  she  to 
be  striking  a  light  at  all,  except  she  heard  a  calling?  It 
was  no  wonder  the  problem  seemed  insoluble  to  him,  see- 
ing he  had  only  the  memory  of  his  mazed  senses  at  the 
moment  of  his  hallucination  to  go  by,  in  his  efforts  to 
get  at  the  heart  of  the  mystery  now. 


290  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE 

So  bis  mind  ran  back  always  on  tbat  last  bour  of  bis 
concord  witb  Lucinda,  before  tbe  idiot  Jobn  Eackbam  bad 
let  bimself  be  fooled  by  tbat  accursed  witcb  Trant  and  ber 
bedevilments  into  blurting  out  tbe  wbole  tale  of  tbe  duel 
tbat  was  no  murder.  Wbat  a  sweet  bour  tbat  bad  been! 
Tbose,  at  least,  were  her  bands  tbat  toucbed  bim  tben. 
He  could  almost  persuade  bimself  tbat  be  could  feel  tbem 
still  upon  bis  face — could  still  bear  ber  voice  of  tbat  bour 
in  bis  ears. 

All  sentimental  nonsense!  He  wanted  cbange,  ta 
become  bis  old  self  again.  Get  back  to  tbe  sweet,  vile  life 
of  town — tbat  was  bis  wise  course  now — and  sbake  free 
of  tbis  puny  slavery !  Get  back  to  tbe  rattle  of  tbe  dice, 
tbe  jangle  of  tbe  loose  gold  among  tbe  card-packs,  tbe 
blaspbemy,  obscenity,  and  wit  of  Eocbester,  Sedley, 
Etberege,  tbe  merry,  beartless  King  bimself — ^not  tbe 
least  witty  of  tbem  all — and  last  and  most  tbe  women, 
daugbters  of  impudence  and  vice,  wbose  laugbter  made 
tbe  downward  road  to  Hell  a  merry  one.  Tbat  was  life — 
tbe  life  of  tbe  boney-bee,  tbat  pauses  on  eacb  flower  only 
for  satiety,  tben  seeks  inviolate  blooms  elsewbere.  A 
plague  of  tbis  new  inroad  on  bis  soul ;  it  angered  bim  only 
to  be  forced  to  tbe  confession  of  it. 

But  it  was  tbere,  in  tbe  beart  of  bim,  unmaking  all  bis 
manbood — tbe  manbood  tbat  wbistles  care  to  tbe  winds, 
and  defies  God  and  Devil  alike.  What,  after  all,  were 
tbese  coarse  beauties  of  tbe  town,  tbese  painted  jades, 
these  made-up  dollies — he  had  worse  epithets  than  tbat 
for  them,  I  warrant  you — to  set  in  tbe  scale  against  one 
lock  of  Lucinda's  black  hair,  one  look  from  her  eyes. 
iWhy  fly  to  debauchery  and  drink  from  an  ever-growing 
sweet  content,  that  grew  by  what  it  fed  on ;  that  be  feared 
to  see  the  end  of,  even  while  he  did  not  anticipate  it? 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  291 

Why,  indeed,  if  the  end  had  not  come?  But,  alas! — 
he  had  flung  all  his  treasure  away  and  now  was  fain 
to  replenish  his  empty  purse  by  forged  drafts  upon 
the  Bank  of  Pleasure,  sure  to  be  dishonoured  in  the 
end. 

Well ! — at  least  let  him  draw  as  long  as  his  credit  was 
good.  Why  be  sent  to  the  gallows  for  less  than  an  honest 
felony?  Off  to  London  was  the  word!  Pack  and 
saddle!  Pack  the  heavy  baggage  off — some  quantity  of 
it  for  this  journey! — by  slow  waggon-carriage,  to  reach 
London,  if  all  goes  well,  in  a  fortnight.  One  pack-horse 
load,  such  as  we  took  to  Kips  Manor,  will  furnish  forth  a 
fortnight  easily.  A  two  hours'  interview,  or  maybe  an 
hour  thrown  in,  with  Durrell  the  steward,  will  settle  all 
the  business  of  the  estate — shall  Widow  Hacket,  whose 
rent  was  not  forthcoming  at  Michaelmas,  be  left  in  pos- 
session or  turned  out  ? — shall  a  less  price  be  accepted  for 
the  summer's  hay-crop  on  the  home  farm? — or  such-like 
points.  As  for  his  office  of  sheriff  or  magistrate,  Sir 
Oliver  had  contented  himself  with  a  brief  hand-note  to 
each  of  his  substitutes,  alleging  indisposition  as  a  present 
excuse  from  resumption  of  duties;  and,  as  for  his  future 
intended  absence  in  London,  out  of  sight  was  out  of  mind. 
Let  them  even  get  on  as  best  they  might !  As  for  these 
rumours  of  folk  dying  by  hundreds  of  the  Plague,  they 
were  true  enough,  no  doubt,  of  the  common  folk;  the 
better  sort  were  untouched.     ISTever  fret  for  that! 

So,  let  it  be  a  start  for  London,  and  to-morrow!  Why 
make  delay  when  none  is  needed  ?  But  first,  give  just  a 
thought  to  this — could  he  but  see  Lucinda?  If  he  got 
speech  of  her,  but  for  a  moment,  might  not  the  tongue  he 
knew  the  powers  of  so  well, — the  tongue  he  had  used  so 
skilfully  for  many  a  woman's  ruin — be  made  of  service 


292  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE 

now  for  his  own  salvation  ?  It  was  worth  a  forlorn  hope, 
especially  as  he  might — might  he  not? — claim  pardon 
already  given.  Could  he  not  get  on  the  track  of  an 
opportunity?  .  .  .  Yes,  he  could.  Where  was  that 
busybody  Anstiss  ?  Ten  chances  to  one  she  had  been  spy- 
ing and  prying. 

Anstiss,  summoned  to  the  Russet  Room  by  a  prolonged 
jangling  of  Sir  Oliver's  bell,  could  tell  all  he  needed  for 
his  purpose.  My  lady  always  walked  out  alone  early; 
very  frequently — indeed,  almost  always — in  the  rose- 
garden  east  of  the  house,  to  get  the  sun  in  the  morning. 
What  did  "  early  "  mean  ?  Early  meant  very  early,  be- 
fore a  many  were  aw^ake.  Call  it  an  hour  before  the  fam- 
ily broke  their  fasts ;  that  might  be,  as  the  days  shortened 
now,  half-past  seven  of  the  clock.  The  Squire  (meaning 
Vincent)  would  ride  till  then  about  the  estate,  keeping 
an  eye  on  this  and  that,  making  often  a  long  round,  and 
sometimes  late.  Who  else  was  there  in  the  house  ?  Well 
— there  was  the  Captain  (Roger  Locke,  clearly),  except  he 
had  gone  to  his  regiment,  and  the  two  old  ladies,  the 
sisters  of  the  late  Squire,  w^ho  remained  much  in  the 
house,  working  at  broidery  work  with  the  needle.  And 
how  came  Mrs.  Anstiss  to  be  able  to  speak  to  these  facts, 
seeing  she  had  never  lived  in  the  house  herself?  Her 
reply  was  that  her  cousin  the  lodge-keeper's  wife  had  a 
tongue  of  her  own  in  her  head,  and  as  good  an  eye  for 
what  was  plain  to  any  sight  as  most  folk,  for  all  they 
might  give  themselves  airs.  This  woman  was  of  a  shrew- 
ish temper,  and  would  always  take  others  to  task  for  no 
fault  of  their  own,  and  build  up  a  grievance  out  of 
nothing. 

Sir  Oliver  heard  her  out,  paying  no  attention  to  any- 
thing she  said  that  was  outside  his  purpose  and  the  plan 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  293 

he  was  forming  in  his  mind.  His  face  was  black  with 
gloom  and  determination  as  he  stood  looking  from  his 
window  with  his  hack  to  her,  seeming  to  hear  her  out. 
But  his  eyes  and  his  thoughts  alike  were  bent  towards  the 
Old  Hall,  there  away  beyond  the  tree-tops  of  his  own 
Park.  For  the  Kusset  Koom  is  high  up  in  the  building, 
and  was  so  called  in  those  days  from  no  colour  of  its 
own,  but  because  from  the  window  one  might  see  the  little 
village  of  Eusset  Cross,  which  is  just  against  Lea  Down, 
beyond  which  is  the  old  Hall.  And  when  Sir  Oliver 
turned  again  from  the  window,  saying,  "  That  will  do, 
Anstiss,"  he  had  listened  to  her  no  farther  than  to  hear 
what  had  set  him  on  a  plan  to  see  Lucinda,  if  it  might  be, 
in  that  time  when  she  walked  in  the  garden.  Of  which 
intent  his  mind  remained  full  when  the  woman  had  de- 
parted, with  a  new  grudge  against  him  for  his  inattention 
and  curtness.  And  he  brooded  over  it  till  midnight, 
and  it  was  with  him  after  he  lay  down  to  sleep,  and 
his  prefigurement  of  how  he  would  ride  next  day 
to  the  Old  Hall — throw  the  dice  once  more  in  the 
game  of  life,  as  it  were — crept  into  the  heart  of  his 
dreams  as  he  fell  asleep,  or  waylaid  them  in  the  early 
morning. 

It  is  very  rare  to  dream,  a  second  time,  an  old  dream  in 
its  entirety;  though  some  aver  that  this  has  happened, 
once  and  again.  But  that  the  place,  the  buildings,  the 
fields  and  trees  of  an  old  forgotten  dream  should  come 
anew  into  our  sleep — this  is  no  such  rarity,  if  folk  may  be 
trusted  to  tell  the  truth  when  none  can  prove  them  liars. 
Indeed,  most  of  us  know  how  any  little  stirring  of  past 
memory  overnight  may  haunt  the  thoughts  of  sleep  and 
colour  the  images  it  forms. 


294  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

It  was  so  with  Sir  Oliver  this  night.  Even  as  the 
waking  world  vanished  from  him,  a  resolve  was  afoot  in 
his  mind  that  he  would  not  ride  within  sight  of  the 
Mausoleum  in  the  Park  on  his  way  to  the  Old  Hall,  how- 
ever much  he  might  lessen  the  distance  by  so  doing.  He 
would  not  acknowledge  the  effort  it  cost  him  to  keep  in 
abeyance  his  memories  of  that  terrible  morning  of  the 
duel,  and  made  believe  that  his  hatred  of  the  direct  road 
was  only  bred  of  that  detestable  dream  that  hung  about 
him  still;  that  would  have  been  dreamed  all  the  same, 
mind  you,  if  no  duel  had  ever  been  fought  at  all !  And  cer- 
tainly the  effect  on  his  sleep  was  to  revive  this  dream 
itself,  not  the  duel. 

For  as  the  hour  came  on  of  the  dreams  we  most  remem- 
ber— the  hour  before  waking — he  found  himself  again 
making  for  the  Box  Walk,  taking  for  granted  the  fountain 
he  would  see  at  the  next  turn  in  the  pathway,  round  the 
corner  of  that  yew-hedge.  His  thought  to  himself  was — 
that  then  this  had  been  real,  after  all!  See,  now! — was 
not  this  water  real,  that  he  could  run  his  fingers  through 
it  thus?  And  then  he  accepted  as  real,  without  protest, 
things  all  his  reason  would  have  been  in  revolt  against, 
outside  the  realm  of  Sleep.  All  without  seeking  to  know 
in  what  interval,  under  what  circumstances,  he  had  con- 
demned the  whole  as  unreality! 

Soon  that  ghastly  fetch  of  his  mother — he  knew  this, 
somehow,  beforehand — would  limp  towards  him  along  the 
gravel  pathway.  Yes — quick  upon  his  thought  of  it,  it 
came,  limping,  limping,  limping!  This  time  he  would 
have  turned  to  fly  from  it,  could  he  have  chosen.  But  all 
power  of  movement  was  gone  from  him,  and  he  could 
not  speak.  How  he  fought  for  speech,  were  it  only  a 
word! 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  295 

Would  this  last  for  ever,  with  that  muffled  form  still 
limping,  limping  towards  him,  yet  never  getting  nearer? 
At  last  his  voice  came,  but  not  to  say  what  he  would  have 
it  say;  only  to  make  a  crazy  noise  he  had  no  control  over. 
From  which  intolerable  horror  of  nightmare  he  woke  with 
a  great  struggle,  to  find  himself  in  the  half-dark  of  a  wind- 
less dawn,  with  an  inexplicable  idea  upon  him  that  this  is 
the  morning  of  the  duel;  and  that,  now  that  he  knows, 
for  some  strange  reason,  what  it  will  mean  to  him,  he  will 
not  fight.  He  will  draw  back,  honour  or  no ! — nay  more, 
he  will  awaken  Lucinda  to  tell  her  how  he  has  held  back 
from  the  slaying  of  her  father.  For  no  perversion  of 
intelligence  is  too  amazing  to  be  impossible  to  him  who 
half-wakes  from  the  delusions  of  a  dream. 

But,  alas! — no  voice  came  in  response  to  his,  and  he 
was  alone  in  the  room.  Then  his  head  cleared,  and  he 
shrank  from  himself  to  think  how  furtively,  that  morning 
of  the  duel,  he  had  risen  from  Lucinda's  side,  that  she 
might  sleep  on  in  ignorance,  and  how  he  had  stolen  noise- 
less from  the  house. 

No  need  for  caution  now !  He  flung  the  lattice  wide  to 
welcome  the  sweet  morning  air,  and  looked  out  over  the 
land,  veiled  here  and  there  with  mist,  islanding  the  elms 
in  the  levels  beyond  the  park-land,  like  a  sea.  It  will  just 
have  time  to  tell  the  early  riser  that  Autumn  is  upon  us 
before  the  sun  catches  it  unawares,  and  sends  it  flying. 
Sir  Oliver  knew  by  the  backward  dawn  that  he  was  before- 
hand with  the  time,  and  he  had  no  mind  for  delay.  A 
long  ride  round  would  take  him  the  farther  from  that 
ride  he  sought  to  forget,  of  three  months  since.  And  the 
sooner  he  was  dressed  and  out  of  that  room,  with  a 
sense  of  that  accursed  dream  still  hanging  about  it,  the 
better ! 


296  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOISTOR 

He  took  John  Eackham  to  task,  unreasonably,  for  not 
being  ready  with  his  horse,  near  an  hour  before  the  time 
he  had  bespoken  it.  Rackham,  in  no  mind  to  waste  a 
word  on  that  matter,  or  any  other,  waited  till  he  stopped, 
and  said,  "  You  want  un  now,  I  take  it  ?  Is  that  right  ?  '^ 
To  which  his  master  replied,  still  unreasonably :  "  Don't 
waste  time  in  talking.  Saddle  up !  "  And  then,  to  a 
symptom  of  inquiry  from  the  groom :  "  Want  you  ? — no  1 
Stay  you  at  home,  this  time."  And  then  was  aware  he 
had  implied  something  by  his  last  two  words,  more  than 
concerned  his  hearer.  But  he  brushed  his  conscious- 
ness aside,  to  make  way  for  "  Is  my  lady's  dog  here  ? — 
the  one  you  wot  of — the  one  she  would  always  ride 
with." 

"  The  gazehound  or  the  setter  ?  " 

"  The  gazehound — Diarmid." 

"  You  can  have  which  one  you  like,  Master  Oliver. 
You've  only  to  name  it.  They're  both  on  'em  here." 
But  this  was  only  to  bring  a  tone  of  inquiry  into  the 
matter,  with  a  suggestion  that  his  master  had  spoken 
obscurely  in  this  case,  and  was  always  diflScult  to  under- 
stand. On  the  same  lines,  he  said  in  reply  to  "  I  told  you 
to  turn  the  dog  loose,"  from  Sir  Oliver  as  he  was  mounting 
to  the  saddle — "  You  never  said  when.  Master  Oliver.  If 
he's  loosed  afore  you're  out  of  sight,  that's  enough,  to  my 
thinking,  and  a  bit  over." 

Oliver  mounted  and  rode  away,  saying  no  more  about 
the  dog.  His  last  words  were :  "  Say  to  them — Cecily  and 
Anstiss — that  my  lady  returns  with  me."  So  he  shouted 
back  to  the  groom.  "  Tell  them  to  have  all  in  readiness 
to  receive  her."  And  so  rode  away,  and  Diarmid  the 
gazehound  caught  him  up  just  beyond  the  wych-elm,  and 
scoured  in  wide  circles  over  the  park-land;  safely,  for  so 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  297 

far  no  deer  were  in  sight,  and  he  was  too  high-hred  a  dog 
to  molest  sheep  or  cattle.  But  Oliver  was  glad  to  be  com- 
pelled to  skirt  the  park,  following  the  outer  roadway,  to 
avoid  the  deer.  For  thereby  there  was  the  less  seeming, 
or  none,  of  a  schemed  avoidance  of  that  road  by  the 
Mausoleum,  which  he  must  at  least  have  seen  had  he 
gone  that  way.  Now,  he  could  and  did  persuade  him- 
self that  no  hysterical  fancies,  bred  of  a  nightmare 
dream,  could  have  stood  in  the  way  of  his  taking  the 
shorter  road,  and  saving  himself  half  an  hour's  hard 
riding.    It  was  the  dog  and  the  fallow  deer. 

But  he  was  betimes  to  his  purpose,  having  started  early. 
He  could  see  from  the  road  over  Lea  Down,  as  he  ap- 
proached the  Old  Hall,  that  its  inhabitants  were  stirring 
but  little,  if  at  all.  A  gardener,  as  he  saw  by  the  scythe 
over  his  shoulder,  walked  across  the  lawn,  and  the  ring  of 
his  whetstone  upon  it  was  clear  a  few  moments  after  in  the 
still  air  as  Oliver  drew  nearer  to  the  house.  He  went 
cautiously,  being  in  no  haste  to  arrive  until  he  had  seen 
Vincent  ride  away,  as  Anstiss  had  said  was  his  custom. 
There  would  be  no  danger  of  their  meeting,  for  the  Squire 
w^ould  never  ride  over  Lea  Down.  He  was  certain  to  go 
towards  the  village,  or  some  farm,  lower  down  on  the 
hillside. 

Sir  Oliver  waited,  turning  over  in  his  mind  what  he 
should  do  with  his  horse.  He  was  a  little  perplexed,  as  he 
had  either  to  leave  the  horse  tethered  and  unguarded — for 
he  could  not  ride  it  close  to  Lucinda's  garden — or  to  find 
someone  in  whose  charge  it  might  remain  till  his  return. 
He  resolved  to  tether  it,  and  take  his  chance;  unless 
indeed  some  suitable  guardian  should  come  in  sight 
shortly.   .    .    . 

Were  not  those  sounds  from  beyond  the  Hall  voices,  and 


298  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

the  ring  of  hoofs  on  the  cobblestone  paving  he  remem- 
bered so  well  at  the  front  gate  of  the  Hall  ?  That  must  be 
Vincent,  going  out  through  the  arch  from  the  paved  court 
within.  Yes — and  then  follows  the  sound  of  his  horse's 
quickening  pace  along  the  drive. 

Oliver's  eyes  were  fixed  on  a  window  in  the  eastern 
gable,  that  caught  the  sun.  He  knew  that  window  well; 
had  watched  it  more  than  once  as  he  was  doing  now,  in 
the  early  summer  dawns,  when  the  silly  girl  his  victim 
would  make  appointments  to  meet  her  betrayer,  without 
her  parent's  knowledge,  many  a  time.  He  could  recall 
that  last  time,  before  she  left  her  home  for  good,  when  a 
white  handkerchief  waved  by  a  fooFs  white  hand  showed 
him  the  game  was  his — a  preconcerted  signal.  That  was 
"  Miss  Mauleverer's  room "  then.  It  was  so,  still,  per- 
haps; but  .  .  .  However,  he  was  always  ready  with  a 
spurious  belief,  to  shield  his  conscience,  that  but  for  a 
living  wife  all  his  behaviour  to  Lucinda  would  have  been 
honourable.  It  had  been  an  arriere  pensee,  certainly ;  but 
now  that  it  had  come,  the  way  he  made  the  most  of  it  at 
every  turn  showed  an  awakening  of  conscience,  surely? 
Let  him  have  the  advantage  of  the  doubt,  for  what  it  is 
worth. 

There ! — was  not  that  a  shifting  of  the  window-curtain 
of  that  room  ?  Yes — and  an  opening  outwards  of  the  case- 
ment; Sir  Oliver  could  not  see  by  whom,  but  he  had  a 
hope,  for  his  face  must  have  changed  hopefully.  Else  why 
should  the  hound,  crouched  at  his  feet  and  panting  open- 
mouthed,  watching  constantly  for  a  signal  from  his 
master  to  sanction  some  activity  undefined — ^why  should 
he  pant  on  a  sudden  more  quickly? — ^why  should  his  eye 
gleam  with  a  new  impatience,  almost  too  strenuous  to  be 
borne  ?    Dogs  have  a  way  of  knowledge  unlike  ours,  and 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  299 

it  goes  beyond  the  most  we  are  ready  to  allow  them. 
How  came  this  Diarmid  to  know  what  his  master's  intent 
had  been  in  bringing  him  thus  with  him,  as  he  very  surely 
did?  For  his  self-restraint  endured  no  longer  than  to 
glean,  from  the  eye  he  watched  so  intently, ,  that  its  owner 
had  caught  sight  of  what  he  too  was  on  the  watch  for; 
and  then  he  was  off  like  a  whirlwind,  the  nearest  way  to 
reach  the  garden.  Oliver  had  just  caught  sight  of 
Lucinda  there.  It  was  no  straight  road,  for  a  great 
garden-wall,  which  even  Diarmid  could  not  leap,  had  to 
be  taken  into  account;  and  though  he  could  have  swum 
the  pond  he  chose  the  way  by  the  bridge. 

Sir  Oliver  was  minded  to  whistle  him  back,  mistrusting 
his  too  great  zeal.  But  a  dog-whistle  tells  tales,  and  he 
thought  better  of  a  first  impulse.  There  was  his  horse, 
too,  to  claim  his  attention.  If  he  could  see  no  one  to 
take  charge  of  it  he  would  have  to  leave  it,  perforce.  Was 
there  a  soul  in  sight?  Well — a  boy,  certainly!  A  boy 
is  better  than  nothing.  He  beckoned  to  the  lad,  telling 
him  to  keep  his  eye  on  the  horse,  and  he  should  have  a 
penny.  The  boy  nodded,  and  he  left  him  sitting  in  the 
fern  by  the  roadside,  while  the  tethered  horse  cropped  the 
short  grass  within  reach.  He  then  followed  the  short  cut 
to  the  bridge  the  dog  had  taken,  sometimes  zigzagging 
through  the  gorse  and  bracken.  He  knew  little — almost 
nothing — of  what  he  meant  to  say  to  Lucinda. 

Were  the  words  spoken  by  her — as  he  believed — so 
soon  after  his  confession,  that  night  of  the  storm,  suffi- 
cient to  warrant  his  posing  as  a  pardoned  culprit?  He 
could  not  answer  ^^  Yes  "  to  his  own  question. 

As  to  the  girl  herself,  she  was  hard  put  to  it  to  know 
whether  what  had  passed  in  three  months — ^no  more! — 
was  real,  or  all  a  dream.    For  her,  the  world  had  changed 


300  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOXOE 

with  a  rush,  and  had  swept  away  her  girlhood.  That  is, 
if  she  could  safely  assume  the  reality  of  it  all.  Otherwise 
— and  a  half-hope  was  hers  in  secret — she  might  still 
wake  from  this  horror  of  a  too  long  night  to  find  her  life 
intact,  and  her  father's  voice  in  place  of  tlie  oppressive 
stillness  of  the  silent  mansion.  Think  of  it! — how  she 
would  welcome  back  that  grown-up  babyhood  with  all  its 
ignorance  upon  it.  But  then  came  a  terrible  obstacle  to 
the  dream-theory.  How  could  she  have  brewed  this 
nightmare — most  of  all  the  joys  that  made  it  hardest  to 
bear, — out  of  the  knowledge  of  life  that  babyhood 
supplied  ? 

So  she  had  gone  on  through  the  days,  herself  within 
herself;  speaking  little,  but  with  no  outward  sign 
upon  her  of  more  suffering  inwardly  than  one  might 
in  reason  hope  would  die  with  time.  So  thought  her 
brother  Vincent;  so  thought  her  other  brother,  Koger 
Locke.  Both  were  wrong,  but  the  truth  is  that  no  young 
man  understands  women — even  his  own  sisters.  And  he 
will  not  hearken  to  his  mother,  for  he  thinks  that  already 
he  knows  better  than  she.  On  which  account  Vincent 
and  Roger  could  dwell  happily  on  the  thought  that  one 
day  the  Lucy  of  old  would  come  back  to  them,  and  life 
this  side  of  the  grave  be  somewhat  sweet  again,  for  all  its 
shadows,  until  the  happy  hour  of  death.  But  this  only 
when  one  or  other  of  them  had  slain  her  betrayer  and  her 
father's  murderer.  Let  her  love  for  him  die,  and  the 
hour  of  requital  would  come  yet. 

The  Lucinda  that  Oliver  caught  sight  of  in  her  garden 
afar,  on  this  morning  of  his  ride  to  the  Old  Hall,  was  no 
other  than  herself  of  yesterday — of  every  yesterday  as 
far  back  as  the  hour  of  that  deadly  revelation  of  his  guilt, 
of  that  last  kiss  she  could  not  withhold  from  the  un- 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISIIONOE  301 

conscious  lips  of  tlie  man  she  had  loved.  For  her,  life 
ceased  then  and  there,  and  left  her  merely  the  task  of 
being;  no  more  for  her  than  mere  existence,  till  her 
])atience  should  be  crowned  with  death.  She  walked  in 
the  knowledge  of  a  yesterday  like  this,  a  foreknowledge  of 
a  morrow  no  other  than  this.  Her  eyes  on  the  ground 
scarcely  left  the*  gravel  path  to  see  the  pansies  skirting  the 
beds  on  either  side;  still  less  to  look  up  to  the  hollyhock 
flowers  chasing  the  young  buds  hard  to  the  topmost  stem ; 
unheedful  even  of  the  year's  last  rosebud,  to  burst  maybe 
too  late,  and  live  a  stinted  life  in  a  chill  wind,  or  shrivel 
on  the  stem. 

So  insensible  was  she  to  sight  or  sound  that  she  walked 
the  garden's  length  beside  a  companion  whom  she  had 
not  seen.  But  she  started  as  a  dog's  tongue  touched 
the  hand  that  hung  listlessly  beside  her,  and  crying  out 
aloud :  "  Oh,  Diarmid,  Diarmid — darling  dog — where 
have  you  come  from  ?  "  knelt  and  bent  down  over  him, 
caressing  his  soft  fur  and  beautiful  ears,  letting  him  lick 
her  face.  And  the  first  tears  that  had  come  freely  from 
her  eyes  fell  in  response  to  the  dumb  affection  of  this  old 
lover  of  hers,  and  were  more  ease  than  pain. . 

The  great  hound,  well  content  to  be  caressed  by  his 
old  mistress,  whom  he  had  missed,  be  sure! — for  dogs 
forget  neither  love  nor  hate — pressed  up  close  to  her  feet 
as  she  sat  down  on  a  stone  seat,  moss-grown,  at  the  path- 
end;  and  so  crouched,  throwing  back  his  head  to  meet 
her  hand,  darting  out  a  long  tongue  when  there  came  a 
chance  to  touch  it.  So  they  remained,  the  dog  and  the 
woman,  silent  in  the  stillness  of  the  solitary  garden. 

Was  that  the  footstep  of  old  Bayle,  the  gardener? 
"  Why  ask,  when  it  could  be  no  other  ?  "  was  Lucinda's 
thought.      No    idea    crossed    her    mind    that    the    dog's 


302  'AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

presence  meant  his  master's  near  at  hand;  until,  as  the 
step  came  nearer,  he  started  up,  and  trotted  away  through 
the  arch  in  the  wall — the  garden's  only  entrance,  for  it 
was  a  complete  enclosure. 

Then  the  knowledge  came  home  to  her  mind  that  this 
could  be  no  other  than  Oliver  himself,  and  had  there  been 
another  outlet  to  the  garden  she  would  have  fled  to  avoid 
him.  The  dog  ran  back  a  moment  later,  ahead  of  the 
approaching  footsteps,  licked  her  hand,  and  again  returned 
to  meet  them.  For  dogs  will  do  this  thing,  when  in  doubt 
betwixt  two  friends,  as  though  to  make  each  alive  to  the 
other's  presence.  Nearer  came  the  footsteps — ^nearer 
still!  And  Lucinda,  who  had  started  .to  her  feet,  stood 
motionless  as  a  statue,  pale  as  Death.  And  her  words  to 
her  own  heart  as  she  stood  there  were:  "He  slew  my 
father!" 

Th-e  dog  vibrated  between  them  quicker  as  Oliver  came 
slowly  down  the  garden  walk.  More  and  more  slowly, 
till  barely  three  paces  farther  would  have  brought  him  to 
Lucinda's  side.  But  her  hands,  outstretched  towards 
him,  would  have  forbidden  his  nearer  approach,  even  had 
her  face,  hard  set,  relaxed  its  force  of  prohibition.  Even 
had  the  cry  not  come  from  her  lips,  with  all  the  power  in 
them  of  the  agony  of  her  soul:  "Go,  Oliver,  go!  You 
are  my  father's  murderer." 

Then  said  Sir  Oliver,  as  he  had  said  before :  "  I  am  no 
murderer,  Lucinda.  Had  it  been  given  me  to  choose,  is 
it  lik-e  I  would  have  slain  him?"  It  was  on  his  lips  to 
say :  "  I  thought  I  was  absolved  of  that  guilt."  But  his 
restless  longing  to  plead  his  case  had  possession  of  him, 
and  he  let  it  slip.  So  Lucinda  remained  unconscious  of 
this  belief  of  his. 

Her  reply  was  quiet  and  short,  under  her  breath  almost. 


JfLN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  303 

"  I  cannot  tell.  Only,  go !  I  cannot  bear  thig."  A 
dazed  look  was  growing  on  her,  as  though  the  strain  were 
overtaking  her,  and  she  might  swoon  clean  away  at  any 
moment. 

Then  Oliver,  knowing  himself  all  the  while  a  liar  and 
hypocrite,  framed  in  his  mind  a  cunning  defence,  or  rather 
counter-attack.  "  Oh,  Lucy,  think  of  this! ''  he  cried. 
"  Was  it  not  all  known  to  your  father — had  he  not  my 
pledge  ?  Did  he  not  know  that  you  would  hold  me  bound 
by  it  ?  Why  did  he  need  to  force  this  meeting  upon  me  ? 
How  could  I  hold  back  in  honour  ?  What  choice  had  I 
but  to  answer  his  challenge  ?  "  He  paused  a  moment, 
while  she  stood  still  and  speechless ;  then  resumed :. 
"  Oh,  Lucy — dearest  of  all  women ! — only  believe  this  one 
thing  of  me ;  that,  when  he  and  I  crossed  swords,  my  sole 
idea  was  to  hold  him  in  play — disarm  him — end  a  blood- 
less encounter  with  a  renewed  pledge  of  fidelity  to  his 
daughter,  until  I  could  compass  my  own  freedom  from  a 
bond  I  hated — ^yes,  a  bond  that  was  forced  upon  a  foolish 
boy  by  interested  guardians.    .    .    .^' 

"  What  is  all  this  to  me  ?    You  did  kill  him !  " 

Then  Oliver  told  a  deliberate  lie.  "  Ay,  Lucy ! — ^but 
with  a  difference.  My  sword-thrust  slew  him,  not  my 
heart.  It  was  the  strength  of  his  blade,  seeking  my  life, 
that  forced  my  hand,  and  made  defence  seem  onset.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Lucy,  think  of  me  at  my  best!  Mix  but  a  little 
mercy  with  your  blame !  This  is  God's  truth  that  I  tell 
you." 

Then  again  he  was  half  in  a  mind  to  try  if  her  memory 
kept  no  hold  of  that  seeming  pardon  that  he  clung  to 
despite  misgivings  of  its  reality.  But  before  the  words 
could  come  Lucinda  of  a  sudden  broke  into  a  long, 
strained  laugh,  with  an  underthrill  in  it  of  such  pain  that 


304  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

Oliver  half  thought  her  mad,  for  the  moment.  "  God's 
truth !  "  she  cried.  "  God's  truth  from  your  lips!  "  Hesi- 
tation came  and  ended  with  a  sharp  and  searching  ques- 
tion :  "  Where  are  my  letters  ?  " 

Oliver  flinched  from  the  words.  As  he  stood  there  with 
bitten  lip,  and  eyes  that  would  not  meet  hers,  he  said  to 
himself :  "  The  fool  that  I  was  not  to  see  that  she  must 
come  to  know  that/'  Not  knowing  how  she  knew, 
yet  seeing  many  possibilities  of  knowledge  for  her, 
he  stopped  inquiry  short.  It  was  enough  that  she  did 
know. 

But  how  much  ?  If  her  meaning  was,  "  How  came  it 
these  letters  were  never  delivered  ?  "  what  was  there  in 
that  that  postal  miscarriage  would  not  account  for  ?  But 
suppose  she  knew  more!  What  could  he  say  unless  he 
knew  her  sources  of  information?  And  even  their  dis- 
closure would  have  given  him  no  defence.  He  had  none, 
and  knew  it.  But  he  might  find  some  plea,  given  time. 
So  he  muttered,  "  All  shall  be  explained,''  or  words  to 
the  same  effect.  To  her  next  curt  question  "  How  ?  "  he 
could  say  nothing. 

Then  it  seemed  as  though  her  indignation  at  his 
duplicity  and  fraud  had,  as  it  were,  released  her  from  her 
love  of  him — that  love  which  was  the  true  cause  of  her 
weakness  against  herself.  Had  it  not  been  still  surviving 
speech  would  have  been  easy  to  her.  Now  the  lock 
seemed  to  fall  from  her  tongue,  and  her  anger  to  give  her 
strength  of  utterance,  as  it  burst  through  the  bounds  that 
held  it.  "  Oh,  you  may  well  be  silent,  liar  that  you  are — 
liar  that  you  have  been !  "  Her  eyes  flashed,  and  her 
words  came  fiercely.  "  No,  Oliver,  no !  Speak  not  at 
all!  Keep  to  the  silence  you  cannot  break  without 
another  lie.     Listen  to  what  you  have  done  for  me,  and 


A:^r  AFFAIR  OF  DISHO]S^OR  305 

then  begone  and  let  me  see  you  no  more.  I  have  loved 
you,  Oliver,  and  my  love  has  been  a  true  one,  while  yours 
has  been  the  love  that  kills,  and  leaves  its  victim  to  the 
beast  that  feeds  on  carrion.  I  know  now  in  my  sad 
wisdom  what  my  lot  was  to  have  been.  You  have  slain 
my  father.  .  .  .  Oh,  my  God,  my  dearest,  my  dearest ! 
— Kiead — dead !  .  .  .  my  dearest  who  had  no  choice,  as 
men's  thoughts  bind  them,  but  to  cleanse  the  dishonor  I 
had  brought  upon  him  in  blood.  And  he  died — my 
darling! — and  there  was  I  the  while,  never  knowing.  .  .  . 
]^o — listen  still,  Oliver,  listen  still !  .  .  .  I  believe  in 
my  heart  I  must  have  loved  you  to  the  end,  even  though 
we  had  never  met  again,  but  for  the  wicked  deceit  you 
practised  on  me.  I  know  it  all  now.  I  know  now  why 
I  was  taken  away  at  an  hour's  notice  to  Kips  Manor — 
to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  his  death.  I  know  now  your 
fraud  with  the  letters  I  wrote  him — all  to  keep  me  in 
ignorance  of  his  death.  I  have  seen  all  your  device  for 
duping  me — the  empty  sheets  that  made  the  letter  still 
seem  my  own,  the  seals  you  could  let  me  place  over  them 
while  you  laughed  at  your  dupe  in  your  sleeve — all,  all 
to  keep  me  in  ignorance  of  my  father's  death!  .  .  . 
Oliver ! — you  have  been  a  traitor  to  me,  to  the  woman  who 
loved  you  truly.     Now,  begone !  " 

"  Lucinda,  will  you  hear  me  speak  ?  Will  you  think 
calmly?   ..." 

"  I  am  quite  calm.  You  can  say  nothing  to  make  your 
treachery  less.     Begone !  " 

"  How  can  you  know,  except  you  listen  to  me  ?  "  Yet 
he  would  have  found  it  so  hard  to  lay  claim  to  a  previous 
pardon  in  the  face  of  her  vehemence,  even  had  she  been 
willing  to  hear,  that  he  was  secretly  half  glad  of  her 
unreason ;  and,  indeed,  relieved  that  she  did  not  answer — 


306  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOR 

as  she  might  well  have  done,  for  policy's  sake — "  Go  on 
with  your  defence.     It  is  your  right." 

But  for  her  all  thought  of  policy  was  at  an  end,  all 
thought  but  how  soonest  to  get  safe  parted  from  this 
object  of  her  love  and  hate.  For  the  reason  she  could  not 
bear  to  be  near  him  was  less  her  hatred  of  him,  real  as  it 
was,  than  the  equally  real  love  that  smouldered  in  her 
heart.  Could  she  but  get  away  from  him,  her  conscious- 
ness of  it  might  kill  her,  but  it  could  not  burst  out, 
branding  her  with  disloyalty  to  her  father's  memory. 
How  she  would  have  welcomed  some  inconceivable 
palliation  of  her  lover's  guilt,  that  she  might  but  once 
again  feel  his  arms  about  her  as  of  old.  For  no  woman's 
love  ever  dies;  and  some  few  men  in  this  are  not  unlike 
women. 

As  to  what  followed,  things  being  thus.  Whether  it 
was  that  Sir  Oliver,  confident  from  wicked  experience, 
acted  on  a  belief  that  no  woman  could  long  steel  her  heart 
against  his  caresses,  or  that  Lucinda's  beauty,  made  re- 
splendent by  her  flashing  out  at  him  in  such  anger,  went 
beyond  his  powers  of  resistance,  none  can  say.  But  this 
is  certain,  that  such  lame  palliation  of  his  conduct  as  he 
tried  further  to  make  ended  in  an  outbreak  of  the  truest 
passion,  probably, — of  the  nobler  sort,  mark! — that  he 
had  ever  felt  in  his  life.  And  that  it  was  under  mis- 
apprehension of  some  concession  on  her  part  that  he 
approached  close  to  her.  Indeed,  she  may  have  just 
wavered,  at  the  old  words  of  love,  back  again  in  the  old 
place  where  she  heard  them  first.  But  her  indecision  was 
of  the  slightest.  For  as,  presuming  on  the  encourage- 
ment it  gave  him,  Sir  Oliver  sought  to  take  her  once  more 
in  his  arms,  she  made  no  ado,  but  just  struck  him  sharply 
in  the  face — no  light  blow,  but  a  real  one — and  fled  before 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  307 

he  could  recover  from  his  amazement,  and  in  truth  before 
his  eyesight  was  fully  his  own  again;  for  the  blow  had 
blinded  him  in  good  earnest,  for  such  time  at  least  as  she 
needed  to  get  out  of  his  sight.  When  he  saw  clear  again 
she  was  gone,  and  the  dog  Diarmid  had  followed  her.  Sir 
Oliver  did  not  wait  for  his  return. 


CHAPTEE  XVIII 

Vincent  Mauleverek^  riding  to  the  village,  found 
reason  to  turn  from  his  intention  of  visiting  a  farm  a 
mile  beyond  it,  hearing  by  chance  that  its  tenant  was 
away  at  his  brother's,  the  miller's,  lower  down  the  river, 
which  makes  a  curve  at  this  point  round  Lea  Down.  It 
was  a  ten  minutes'  gallop  at  the  most,  but  over  a  soft  turf, 
tender  to  his  horse's  hoof,  and  welcome  to  its  rider  in  the 
sweet  air  of  the  morning.  Little  after  the  moment  when 
Oliver  first  recognised  Lucinda  in  the  distant  garden,  he 
had  reached  the  mill;  and  then,  after  a  short  chat  with 
his  tenant,  and  a  few  words  of  greeting  and  gossip  with 
the  miller  his  brother,  he  turned  towards  home,  this  time 
making  a  short  cut  back  across  Lea  Down.  Five  minutes 
of  careful  riding  through  scattered  gorse  and  stony  ground 
— a  very  warren  of  rabbit-burrows,  tricky  to  the  surest 
horse's  foot — brought  him  to  the  clear  track  along  the 
ridge  of  the  Down,  that  Oliver  had  passed  an  hour  since. 
No  need  to  touch  his  horse's  mouth  here,  to  get  his  best 
service,  for  a  loose  rein  on  such  a  track  brings  joy  alike 
to  horse  and  rider. 

But  he  reined  in  suddenly,  at  sight  of  something  un- 
wonted a  little  off  the  line  of  road — a  saddled  roan, 
browsing  quietly  in  a  coppice  of  stunted  oak  wind-swept 
to  the  shape  of  the  hillside.  What  could  bring  a  rider 
over  Lea  Down  at  this  hour  in  the  morning?  If  he  was 
a  neighbour,  why  had  he  not  come  to  the  Hall,  where  all 
were  welcome,  even  in  this  saddened  time  ?    If  he  were  a 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISIIOXOK  309 

stranger,  the  more  need  for  hospitality.  For  that  was 
the  way  in  those  days  where  passers-by  in  the  countryside 
were  scarce.  At  sight  of  this  horse,  Vincent  was  off  his 
own  in  a  moment,  and  speaking  with  a  boy  who  seemed 
to  be  left  in  charge. 

The  boy  was  shy  of  talking  with  the  Squire,  and  had 
to  be  coaxed;  questioned,  however,  he  communicated  by 
nods  and  headshakes  the  main  facts  of  his  guardianship 
of  the  horse.  The  difficulty  was  to  get  from  him  any 
description  of  its  owner. 

"  Come,  Abs'lom^  old  man!  "  said  Vincent,  who  knew 
the  lad  quite  well  as  "Widow  Price^s  little  chap." 
"  What  do  you  say  when  you  speak  ?  YouH^e  got  a  tongue 
in  your  head,  haven't  you  ? ''  The  boy  nodded.  "  Very 
well,  then,  what's  it  for  ?  " 

Absalom — it  was  his  real  name — seemed  to  cast  about 
in  his  mind  for  some  answer  that  would  go  well  with 
catechism,  the  form  in  which  he  accepted  any  inquiry 
from  magnates,  lay  or  clerical.  He  decided  on,  "  For  to 
say  my  prayers  with,"  and  seemed  confident  that  his 
answer  would  be  acceptable  on  grounds  of  piety. 

"  Good  boy !  "  said  Vincent ;  not  laughing,  for  he  saw 
nothing  to  laugh  at.  "  For  to  say  your  prayers  with,  and 
to  tell  me  who  the  gentleman  was  who  gave  you  the 
horse  to  hold.  That's  it,  isn't  it?  Did  you  know  the 
gentleman  ?  "  He  only  asked  the  question  to  prolong  the 
talk,  and  come  gradually  to  the  knowledge  he  was  seeking. 
He  had  no  expectation  of  an  affirmative  answer. 

But  Absalom  Price  gave  one;  in  fact,  he  gave  several. 
For  he  kept  nodding  to  emphasize  his  first  assent. 
Thereat  Vincent,  surprised,  but  not  forgetting  that  con- 
ciliation and  confidence  are  the  surest  roads  to  informa- 
tion from  a  shy  youngster,  pressed  gently,  and  in  time 


310  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOR 

discovered  that  the  owner  of  the  horse  was  "  t'  voother 
Squire  at  t'  Leasowes,  bj  Croxlej  Village.'' 

He  left  the  boy  to  examine  the  horse,  tethered  a  few 
paces  back  in  the  thicket,  and  it  recognised  him  as  he 
recognised  it ;  for  horses  are  shrewd  enough  to  mark  those 
who  come  about  them.  But  apart  from  that,  he  could 
tell  the  saddle-bow,  a  notable  piece  of  Spanish  leather- 
work,  as  Oliver's,  and  the  holster  pistols.  His  eye 
brightened  as  he  thought  to  himself  how  soon  he  might 
be  face  to  face  again  with  his  father's  murderer. 

He  walked  a  few  paces  back  along  the  road  to  where  he 
had  left  his  own  horse  browsing;  and,  leading  it  into  the 
thicket,  tethered  it  out  of  sight  in  a  little  glade  to  a  fallen 
tree-trunk.  Its  hoof  struck  the  hollow  tree,  and  a  snake 
started  out  from  a  deep  hole  in  its  rugged  boss,  and 
streaked,  a  zigzag  glitter,  across  the  short  grass.  The  boy, 
who  had  followed,  ran  on  its  track  delighted  with  the 
chase,  flinging  stones,  boy-like,  at  the  reptile,  which  was 
too  clever  for  him  in  the  end,  vanishing  under  pricldy 
gorse.  Then  the  Squire  said  to  him:  '^  You've  got  to 
mind  your  own  horse,  Absalom.  What  did  the  other 
Squire  say  he'd  give  you  ?  " 

"  Give  oy  ?    A  penny." 

"  You  had  best  be  a  good  boy,  and  earn  your  penny." 
But  Absalom  hung  back  inexplicably,  as  though  he 
wanted  to  say  something,  but  lacked  the  courage.  Vin- 
cent, puzzled,  added  interrogatively :  "  Well  ?  " 

Then  the  boy  found  his  voice.  ^^  I  do'ant  want  'ere  a 
penny  of  his,  in  my  poke,"  said  he.  .  .  :  "  Whoy  not, 
master?  I  tell  'ee — because  of  th'  owd  Squire,  up  to 
Hall." 

Absalom's  silence  did  not  seem  to  have  been  due  to 
any  lack  of  words  on  his  part,  but  only  to  rustic  shyness. 


AN  AFFAIE  OE  DISHOJ^OK  311 

iVincent  looked  up  sharply,  awake  to  the  oddity  of  his 
inanner,  as  much  as  to  the  matter  of  his  speech.  ^'  My 
father !  "  said  he.  ^'  What  on  earth  do  we  mean,  I 
wonder  ?  "  He  spoke  half  to  himself ;  but  added,  aloud, 
to  the  boy :  "  Come  here,  my  man,  and  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

The  little  fellow  still  hung  back  a  bit,  but  presently 
gathered  courage,  coming  close  to  Vincent,  whom  he 
seemed  to  have  decided  not  to  fear,  but  to  trust.  He  had 
a  tale  to  tell,  and  told  it  beneath  his  breath,  f ragmentarily, 
and  with  occasional  help  from  his  hearer,  but  very  intelli- 
gently for  a  lad  of  his  years,  which  were  eleven  or  twelve 
at  most.  It  w^ould  be  difficult  of  narration  in  his  exact 
words  and  accent,  and  would  detain  the  story  to  no  pur- 
pose, for  it  was  a  tale  the  reader  knows  well.  He  was,  in 
fact,  the  boy  spoken  of  as  witnessing  from  a  concealment 
the  duel  that  ended  in  the  death  of  the  old  Squire.  He 
had,  it  seemed,  locked  up  his  secret  knowledge  of  the 
dreadful  tale  in  his  own  heart ;  indeed,  had  it  come  out,  he 
would  certainly,  young  as  he  was,  have  been  called  on  to 
add  his  testimony  to  that  of  the  other  bystanders,  the 
slain  man's  second  and  the  surgeon.  But  he  was  a  silent 
and  reserved  child,  and  kept  his  peace  where  many  an- 
other boy  of  his  years  would  have  paraded  his  experience^ 
and  shown  it  as  a  feather  in  his  cap,  and  for  the  diversion 
of  his  playfellows. 

When  he  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  tale,  Vincent  said : 
'^'  Where  was  it,  then,  the  sword-point  touched  the  old 
Squire  ...  ay,  the  first  time  of  all  ? ''  He  spoke  as  one 
putting  a  great  control  upon  himself,  but  always  with 
affectionate  encouragement  for  his  young  informant,  who 
was  now  half -sitting  on  his  knee,  as  he  himself  sat  on  the 
fallen  tree-trunk.     The  child's  face  burned,  and  his  eyes 


312  AIST  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

glowed.  He  seemed  to  imagine  that  his  word  was  ques- 
tioned. "  A  saw  it/'  said  he  emphatically.  And  then, 
when  Vincent  asked  again  where  was  this  wound,  he 
pulled  aside  his  small  jerkin  and  touched  his  body,  well 
below  the  ribs,  saying :  "  Round  by  here,  and  a  putten 
t'  hand  to  un,  th'  owd  Squire.''  Then  Vincent,  who  felt 
sick  as  his  mind  saw  the  whole  thing,  as  it  were,  pass 
before  his  eyes,  understood  well  how  it  was  that  this  event 
of  the  first  wound  had  so  nearly  escaped  the  notice  of  the 
seconds,  who  were  on  the  right  of  the  wounded  man,  on 
the  side  opposite  to  the  bush  where  the  boy  was  hidden. 
The  other  witnesses  had  suggested  such  an  accident,  but 
had  not  held  to  their  testimony.  The  brief  and  simple 
tale  of  the  boy  carried  conviction. 

Vincent,  then,  feeling  as  though  the  fierce  anger  he 
could  not  check  might  easily  drive  him  mad,  kept  out- 
wardly calm  no  longer  than  to  tell  the  boy  he  might  go 
back  to  his  watching  of  the  horse.  But  he  was  to  come 
again  soon,  if  he  saw  the  Squire  of  Croxley  on  his  way  to 
claim  it.  The  boy  readily  promised  to  do  this,  and  ran — 
maybe  glad  to  have  the  answering  of  no  more  questions. 

Left  to  himself,  Vincent  had  need  of  all  the  strength  of 
his  soul,  there  alone,  with  the  knowledge  on  him  of  the 
manner  of  his  father's  death !  What  could  he  do  but  pray 
that  the  man  who  slew  him,  whose  horse  stood  saddled 
and  tethered  but  a  stone's  throw  distant  awaiting  him, 
might  soon  return  to  claim  it  ?  And  yet — if  he  did !  All 
the  joy  would  go  out  of  retribution  for  a  father's  murder, 
if  it  involved  a  sister's  desolation.  IIow  could  he  send 
the  traitor  to  his  last  account  of  guilt  until  he  knew 
for  a  certainty  that  Lucinda's  love  for  him  was  dead. 

Presently  came  the  boy,  running  back.  Vincent  leapt 
to  his  feet.    "  Is  he  here  ?  "  cried  he.     "  Is  he  coming  ?  " 


AlSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  313 

^' Koa,  bean't!  But  a  can  see  uii!  .  .  .  Wheer? 
In  t'  lady's  garden,  nigh  t'  lady!  You  may  see  they,  too, 
as  well  as  oy.  Coom !  "  Vincent  followed  him.  A  few 
paces  beyond  where  Oliver  had  left  his  horse,  the  thicket 
opened  out,  showing  a  clear  view  of  the  Old  Hall,  with 
Lucinda's  rose-garden  in  the  foreground,  near  enough 
to  show  what  was  not  hidden  by  the  walls.  ^'  Theer 
they  be,  master — the  tway  on  'em,"  said  the  boy 
triumphantly. 

It  was  just  at  the  moment  of  Oliver's  last  appeal  to 
Lucinda  that  Vincent  first  saw  them  clearly.  Even  at 
that  distance  any  spectator  might  have  judged  that  the 
man  was  pressing  earnestly  some  suit  upon  the  woman, 
and  that  she  was  repelling  him,  holding  his  importunity 
in  check.  This  went  on  for  a  few  moments,  her  aversion 
or  resentment  seeming  to  increase  as,  always  coming 
nearer,  he  forced  his  advances  upon  her,  and  would  in  the 
end  have  clasped  her  in  his  arms.  Only  for  those  few 
moments  had  Vincent  the  question  hanging  in  his  mind, 
^^  Will  she — can  she — forgive  him  ? ''  Only  until  the 
sound  of  her  sudden  cry  of  anger  reached  him  through 
all  that  intervening  distance,  and  he  saw,  as  Oliver's 
blood-stained  hands  touched  her,  the  way  in  which  her 
own  struck  fiercely  out  as  in  abhorrence  of  the  thing  they 
sought  to  drive  away.  Then,  indeed,  Vincent's  heart 
leapt  within  him  for  joy,  for  there  was  no  love  left  in  a 
blow  like  that. 

He  watched  Lucinda's  flight  from  the  garden,  saw  her 
emerge  on  the  straight  terrace-path  to  the  house ;  and  then 
noted  for  the  first  time  that  she  was  followed  by  a  great 
white  hound  he  did  not  recognise,  and  that  she  stopped  at 
the  entrance  from  the  lawn  to  caress  it  lovingly,  stooping 
over  it  and  kissing  its  face.    It  was  no  dog  he  knew.    Then 


314  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N'0R 

he  saw  Oliver  turn  to  come  awav,  more  feeling  than  seeing 
his  disconcertment  and  chagrin,  and  then  lost  him  in 
scattered  coppices  and  buildings,  till  he  came  again  in 
sight  of  the  bridge. 

"  Kow,  Absalom  Price,  listen  to  me,  and  when  the 
gentleman  comes  for  his  horse,  say  to  him  just  what  I 
say  to  you  now."  Absalom  nodded  his  pledge  of  faith, 
and  his  confidence  in  his  own  powers.  "  Remember  to 
say  that  the  old  Squire's  son  waits  to  see  him,  and  bring 
him  round  to  me,  there  where  the  snake  was  .  .  .  yes — 
the  viper !  "  Vincent  repeated  the  word,  mimicking  the 
boy's  pronunciation. 

Absalom  turned  to  go,  eager  to  do  his  errand.  But  Vin- 
cent called  him  back,  to  give  him  another  charge;  harder^ 
perhaps,  of  fulfilment  for  a  mere  youngster.  Did  he  know 
where  the  barber  lived  in  the  village — he  that  tended  the 
old  Squire's  wound?  For  the  village  surgeon  was  the 
barber  too.  Of  course  Abs'lom  knew!  Well,  then,  he 
was  to  find  him  in  all  haste  so  soon  as  he  had  brought  Sir 
Oliver  to  the  spot,  and  tell  him  to  come  forthwith,  for  his 
services  would  be  needed.  He  was  to  wait  for  no  further 
telling,  but  to  go.  Vincent  saw  that  he  understood,  and 
sent  him  packing.  Then  he  retraced  his  steps  and 
waited. 

His  patience  would  be  taxed,  he  knew,  in  the  pause  that 
must  elapse  before  Oliver's  coming.  But  he  would  bear 
it.  What  did  a  few  minutes  more  matter  now — now  that 
he  was  franked  by  what  he  had  seen  of  the  change  of  his 
sister's  heart-— freed  by  her  action  to  take  vengeance  on 
the  man  that  had  slain  their  father  ?    So,  patience ! 

What  were  the  words  that  kept  coming  to  his  mind, 
the  Divine  bidding  to  love  our  enemies,  to  forgive  that  we 
should  be  forgiven  ?     "  Mine  enemies — ^yes !  "  said  Vinr 


AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE  315 

cent  to  his  heart.  "  Mine  enemies  that  face  my  sword  in 
the  light  of  day !  Yea — the  better  they  wield  the  sword, 
the  better  I  love  them !  '^  And  the  tears  coursed  down  his 
cheeks  as  the  thought  came  to  him  of  his  dear  foe,  Van- 
heist,  unburied  in  some  forgotten  corner  of  rocks  jutting 
out  to  sea,  his  face  and  limbs  all  mangled  by  the  fishes. 
But — the  man  whose  treacherous  love  had  betrayed  his 
sister,  whose  more  than  treacherous  sword  had  slain  his 
father!  It  was  not  enemies  such  as  he  that  our  Lord 
thought  to  name  in  that  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  when  He 
spake  as  one  having  authority,  and  not  as  one  of  the 
Scribes.  Would  not  He  Himself  rather  have  spoken  His 
blessing  on  the  sword  of  retribution  for  the  sin  He  Him- 
self denounced  ?  For  was  not  the  Commandment  spoken, 
^'  Thou  shalt  do  no  murder "  ?  and  had  not  He  Himself 
said,  "  Till  heaven  and  earth  pass,  one  jot  or  one  tittle 
shall  in  no  wise  pass  from  the  Law,  till  all  be  fulfilled  "  ? 

The  laggard  time  seemed  longer  than  its  true  duration; 
no  doubt  of  that !  He  paced  restlessly  to  and  fro  awhile ; 
then  stopped,  and,  drawing  his  sword  from  its  scabbard 
■ — for  in  those  days  no  man  was  parted  from  his  sword 
except  it  were  by  his  own  fireside,  or  that  of  a  friend — 
struck  the  air  with  it  so  that  it  sang.  Then  he  paused, 
with  a  doubt  in  his  mind.  The  sword  was  a  long  one — 
something  over  the  standard  length — and  might  be  a  cause 
to  delay  the  encounter.  The  soldier's  right  to  a  weapon  in 
battle  as  large  as  his  strength  can  wield  it  is  subject  to  a 
new  rule  of  chivalry  in  the  duello.  There  the  weapons 
must  be  alike,  weight  for  weight,  inch  for  inch.  The 
apprehension  was  a  damper  to  Vincent's  glowing  hope  of 
battle  near  at  hand.  But  there  came  the  sound  of  voices, 
a  boy's  and  a  man's — yes! — Oliver's  voice.  Vincent 
sheathed  hie  sword,  and  waited. 


316  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOK 

"  That  need  be  no  drawback,  no  more  than  that  we  are 
alone/'  So  said  Oliver,  five  minutes  later,  as  thej  faced 
each  other  on  the  turf,  free  of  superfluous  garments  and 
all  in  trim  but  that,  when  their  swords  were  held  to 
measure,  the  point  of  Oliver's  came  short  of  the  hilt  of 
Vincent's.  For  it  is  thus  the  length  of  swords  must  be 
tried  when  duellists  are  alone;  neither  parting  with  his 
weapon.  A  second  of  either  maj  handle  both  weapons  at 
once,  for  a  measurement. 

"  It  is  too  great  a  miss,  Sir  Oliver.  It  shall  never  be 
said  I  slew  a  man  with  a  sword  longer  than  his  own, 
off  the  field  of  battle.  I  can  accept  no  grace,  neither, 
from  my  father's  murderer.  At  the  least,  take  you  the 
longer  weapon."  He  proffered  it,  handle  foremost,  but 
the  response  to  his  action  was  but  sluggish. 

Sir  Oliver's  longing  for  the  encounter  was  not  keen,  and 
it  may  have  been  that  he  would  have  welcomed  any  delay. 
Now  he  knew  quite  well,  for  all  his  show  of  indifference, 
that  Vincent  would  never  fight  him  at  an  advantage,  and 
may  easily  have  seen  that  the  surest  road  to  a  respite  lay 
through  a  mock-chivalrous  refusal  of  his  opponent's  con- 
cession. By  holding  back  he  foresaw  that  Vincent  might 
be,  as  it  were,  compelled  to  withdraw  his  challenge,  and 
that  he  himself  might  even  be  able  to  refuse  a  later  one, 
saying,  "  It  is  by  no  fault  of  mine,  but  your  own,  that  the 
affair  miscarried.  Was  not  I  ready?  What  cared  I  for 
the  eighth  of  an  inch  on  a  sword-point  ?  " 

But  a  middle  course  was  open  to  him.  He  held  out 
the  handle  of  his  own  sword,  taking  no  hold  of  his  oppo- 
nent's in  exchange,  only  saying,  "  A  fairer  shift  would 
be  to  cast  lots  ?  "  For  he  meant,  if  the  lot  gave  Vin- 
cent back  his  own  blade,  to  accept  the  proposal  that 
was  sure  to  come,  of  an  adjournment  till  all  the  for- 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  317 

malities  could  be  complied  with.  So  sure  was  he  of  hisi 
man. 

Vincent  assented  to  the  suggestion.  A  large  and  a  small 
pebble  in  either  hand,  and  Oliver's  closed  right  as  he 
opened  it  showed  the  smaller  pebble.  That  settled  it, 
and  Vincent,  joyously  seizing  Oliver's  sword,  exclaimed; 
''The  time  has  come.  Look  to  yourself,  Sir  Oliver 
Raydon!" 

Sir  Oliver  was  a  fine  swordsman,  as  the  tale  has  seen; 
but  his  memory  of  that  encounter  he  had  witnessed  from 
afar,  on  the  ship's  deck,  unnerved  him.  In  vain  did  he 
repeat  to  himself  that  the  vigorous  use  of  a  broadsword — 
a  ship's  cutlass — in  a  melee,  a  tangle  of  combatants,  ar- 
gued  nothing  of  a  skill  to  match  his  own  in  mastery  of  the 
rapier-point.  He  was  soon  painfully  aware  that  he  had 
to  contend  against  a  strength  greater  than  his  own,  how- 
ever he  had  dared  to  hope  that  the  finesse  and  subtlety  of 
his  own  hand,  acquired  from  great  masters  of  la  scherma 
in  Italy,  were  absent  from  his  opponent's.  He  was  aware,, 
too,  that  his  position  was  that  one  least  loved  of  all  com- 
batants, ineffectual  attack  on  strength  in  reserve,  ignorant 
as  yet  what  power  may  lie  behind  it.  Do  what  he  could^ 
he  could  not  pass  that  terrible  steel  point  that  was  always- 
between  him  and  his  object,  that  seemed  immovable,  a» 
though  held  by  a  vice.  He  was  conscious  of  continually 
falling  back  before  the  relentless,  impassable  blade,  never 
regaining  his  lost  ground;  conscious,  too,  that  he  would 
soon  be  stopped  by  a  tree  at  his  back,  putting  him  at  a 
disadvantage;  for  the  more  reliance  is  placed  on  rapidity 
and  subtlety  as  against  strength,  the  greater  the  need  for 
entire  freedom  of  action.  The  doubt  how  soon  his  limit 
would  be  reached  was  as  bad  as  the  reaching  of  it. 

The  treacherous  minu'tes  fled,  each  one  in  turn  leaving 


818  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

him  more  keenly  alive  to  his  own  loss  of  force,  with  no  set- 
off of  gain  to  balance  it.  Still  the  same  determination, 
fixed,  unwavering,  in  the  stern  eyes  he  had  to  watch,  as 
well  as  the  sword-point  that  had  begun,  to  him,  to  mean — 
death !    And  not  far  hence,  if  this  went  on ! 

But,  at  least,  his  adversary  should  not  go  scot-free, 
whether  he  himself  lived  or  died.  In  his  despair,  a  most 
brilliant  rally  spoke  well  for  Oliver's  repute  as  a  swords- 
man. Had  he  been  met  by  a  like  handling  of  his  oppo- 
nent's weapon,  he  might  have  scored  a  success,  but  he  had 
no  chance  against  a  point  he  could  neither  displace  nor 
pass,  and  his  breath  was  goin^  quickly.  The  end  had  to 
come,  and  came.  A  recoil  from  his  last  futile  thrust — it 
had  gone  dangerously  near  success! — a  half -stumble  over 
a  stone  on  his  backward  path,  and  a  wavering  seen  plainly 
by  the  stern  eye  always  fixed  upon  him,  and  then  he  felt 
his  own  sword-hilt  caught  irresistibly,  and  saw  it  whirled 
away  above  his  head,  to  turn  and  fall  hilt-foremost  into 
the  tree-trunk  where  the  tethered  horse  still  munched  the 
grass  peacefully,  all  unknowing  what  had  been  the  mean- 
ing of  the  measured  sword-clink,  the  ring  of  gliding  steel, 
so  near  at  hand.  Something  of  the  spirit  of  the  time  and 
its  traditions  from  the  past  stirred  in  Oliver  as  he  stood 
there,  believing  he  awaited  death.  ^'  The  hour  is  yours, 
Vincent  Mauleverer,"  said  he.     ^^  Make  a  brief  end !  " 

At  that  moment  he  seemed  his  best  as  a  man  to  his 
opponent;  better  even  than  he  had  seemed  before  as  the 
genial  host,  the  courteous  gentleman  who  had  given  such 
generous  welcome  to  a  castaway.  And  thereat  Vincent 
could  think  a  word  of  forgiveness  to  himself  for  the  loving 
of  this  man  for  awhile  by  the  sister  whose  repudiation  of 
him  he  had  but  now  witnessed.  For  the  fearlessness  of 
death  is  a  thing  that  softens  even  the  hangman's  heart, 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:^OR  319 

though  his  knot  be  tightening  on  the  throat  of  God's  verj; 
foulest  creature. 

The  boy,  who  had  done  his  errand  quickly — indeed,  by 
a  favourable  chance  he  had  met  the  surgeon  before  he 
reached  the  village — ran  well  ahead  of  his  company;  for 
more  than  one  chance  bystander  was  at  hand  to  follow 
them — if  only  in  quest  of  excitement.  He  ran  his  best  as, 
coming  nearer^  he  heard  the  cruel  music  of  the  sword- 
play  through  the  copsewood  ere  he  reached  it-  But  the 
sound  had  stopped  when,,  still  hidden,  lae  could  see  the 
combatants,  the  one  standing  at  pause,  his  sword-point 
dropped;  keen  eyesight  for  his  late  opponent  only, 
clenched  jaw  and  knitted  brow  that  surely  meant  death; 
the  other  with  an  almost  mocking  ease  in  his  folded  arms> 
almost  a.  smile  in  the  defiant  curl  of  his  lip,  as  he  re- 
peated in  the  boy's  hearing,  "  Make  a  brief  end  on't,  good 
Vincent!  You  wiU  not  change  the  past,  but  .  .  ."  and 
then  some  more  his  hearer  could  not  catch. 

The  boy's  heart  thumped  on  his  ribs,  as,  understanding 
much  for  all  his  youth,  he  looked  out  from  the  bushes,  and 
saw  where  Oliver  Raydon  stood  defenceless  before  the  man 
whose  father  he  had  slain,  whose  sister's  young  life  he  had 
blighted  past  recall. 


CHAPTEK  XIX 

Nothing  is,  nor  can  be,  more  Avearisome  to  the  heart  than 
the  intrusion  of  the  little  vulgar  things  of  daily  life,  when 
thought  and  feeling  are  at  their  highest  tension,  at 
moments  when  of  all  things  our  longing  is  but  to  get 
away,  to  be  alone ;  to  struggle,  as  may  be,  against  remorse 
or  grief,  or  apprehension  of  some  dreaded  news  to  come. 
Such  was  Lucinda's  case,  when,  seeking  no  more  than  a 
brief  solitude,  if  only  to  be  clear  of  tell-tale  tears,  she 
encountered  by  the  way  a  person  who  had  never  been 
overwelcome  to  her  at  the  best  of  times.  At  the  stairfoot 
that  led  to  that  room  in  the  eastern  turret  she  had  so  lately 
come  from,  her  anticipation  of  relief  in  its  silence  was 
baulked  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Rachel  Anstiss,  a 
very  epitome  of  all  decorous  obeisances,  her  manner  a 
living  testimony  to  her  willingness  to  overlook  a  fellow- 
woman's  frailty  in  her  own  interest.  ^'  Rely  upon  me  to 
know  nothing,"  was  written  on  her  untempting  cheek, 
and  confirmed  by  an  indescribable  subservience  in  a  pro- 
jection of  upper  teeth  that  quarrelled  with  her  lower  lip 
about  a  lisp  they  should  have  shared  between  them. 

My  lady  would  pardon  her  importunity,  she  knew — this 
was  the  substance  of  her  exordium — seeing  how  honest 
was  the  affection  for  her  ladyship  that  prompted  it. 
Lucinda  mistrusted  this  woman,  and  knew  her  for  a  liar. 
But  she  was  too  gracious  of  heart  to  refuse  to  hear  her  suit 
outright.     What  did  she  seek? — she  asked. 

"  What  should  I  seek,  my  lady,"  said  Rachel  Anstiss, 

320 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  321 

"  but  to  serve  you,  when  you  return  to  your  home.  The 
worshipful  Sir  Oliver  .  .  .''  The  woman  stopped,  not 
because  of  any  interruption,  but  because,  until  now,  she 
had  not  noticed  her  hearer's  quick-coming  breath  and 
ashy-white  face.  '^  I  will  speak  to  you  of  this  later," 
Lucinda  said,  and  passed  quickly  up  the  stair.  Mrs. 
Anstiss  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  only,  as  she  turned 
to  go,  she  closed  her  lips  tight,  and  nodded  more  than 
once.  She  may  only  have  done  this  to  lay  claim  to  in- 
sight, however  vague  was  her  idea  of  the  cause  of  Lu- 
cinda's  distress  of  mind. 

The  great  white  hound  had  followed  Lucinda  from  the 
garden,  but  stopped  at  the  stairfoot.  He  knew  he  was  an 
intruder  in  the  house,  but  that  the  sin  of  mere  entry  was 
venial,  while  the  ascent  of  stairs  was  a  thing  forbidden  to 
dogs  of  his  size,  whatever  might  be  the  privileges  of  lesser 
pets.  So  he  stood  at  the  foot,  one  forepaw  touching  the 
lowest  tread  at  times,  with  soft  explanatory  noises  noAv: 
and  then,  pleading  for  a  suspension  on  his  behalf  of  a 
stupid  rule.  But  his  appeal  was  made  to  one  who  had  no 
soul  for  dogs,  and  the  courtesy  of  his  nobler  nature  made 
concession  to  Rachel  Anstiss,  whose  threatening  action  in 
driving  him  out  was  indeed  but  a  registration  of  her  claim 
to  belong  to  the  ruling  caste,  Man.  For  had  he  ignored  it, 
what  could  she  have  done?  He  trotted  out,  the  way  he 
came,  never  questioning  her  jurisdiction.  As  for  Rachel 
herself,  she  hesitated,  with  brief  nods;  then  returned  to 
the  kitchen.  She  said  to  herself  more  than  once  by  the 
way  that  it  was  no  concern  of  hers,  and  made  that  fact  a 
stepping-stone  to  the  telling  of  this  experience  to  such 
others  of  the  household  as  she  found  there.  And  these 
were  ready  with  speculation  as  to  its  meaning,  and  each 
could  account  for  her  ladyship's  demeanour  in  her  own 


322  AN  AJFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

way,  and  to  her  own  satisfaction.  Eut  no  one  of  them 
knew  of  Sir  Oliver's  presence  in  the  garden,  an  hour  since. 
Por  this  garden  was  quite  unseen  from  the  windows  of  the 
house. 

An  hour  passed,  or  little  short  of  an  hour.  Then 
Lucinda,  who  had  remained  alone  in  her  room  with  a 
swimming  head  that  would  not  lot  her  think  what  had 
happened,  rose  from  the  seat  she  had  fallen  into  and  never 
stirred  from,  as  the  little  Swiss  clock  on  the  mantel  struck 
ten,  telling  her  how  the  minutes  had  run  hj  uncounted. 
Surely  Vincent  should  have  returned  from  his  ride  hy 
now.     He  had  heen  gone  the  best  part  of  two  hours. 

She  roused  herself,  and  after  slight  adjustment  of  her 
hair  and  dress,  went  down  the  stairway  of  the  tyower,  and 
into  a  long  corridor  she  had  to  pass  to  reach  the  broad 
flight  leading  to  the  entrance-halL  As  she  passed  an  open 
window  she  caught  the  sound  of  much  discussion  in  the 
kitchen-  It  had  continued  without  material  variation 
since  liachel  Anstiss  set  it  afoot  an  hour  since;  every 
soul,  except  the  little  kitchen-wench  N^ell,  whose  business 
was  to  be  seen  and  not  heard,  having  repeated  the  same 
verdict  at  intervals  throughout  that  time,  without  con- 
tributing any  new  datum  to  the  discussion.  They  might 
have  gone  on  thus  for  another  hour,  had  not  a  sudden  cry 
from  the  corridor  reached  them,  and  brought  them  out 
to  find  its  cause. 

For  Lucinda,  when  she  reached  the  corridor,  saw  an 
unexpected  sight.  At  the  far  end  was  the  great  dog 
Diarmid  standing  true  in  the  centre  of  the  passage-way, 
his  tail  beating  from  side  to  side,  a  slow  expressive  pendu- 
lum; otherwise,  a  statue.  But  as  the  Memnon  of  the 
Desert  gives  out — so  travellers  say — a  note  at  sunrise,  so 
Diarmid,  when  he  saw  his  mistress,  uttered  a  little  musical 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^OR  323 

sound  of  admonition  or  welcome;  then  made  a  half-turn 
back;  as  though  to  lead  the  way  to  something  known  to 
him,  but  outside  his  powers  of  speech.  Again  turning, 
he  came  to  Lucinda's  feet,  crouching  and  doing  his  best 
to  tell  of  this  thing,  whatever  it  might  be. 

Then  Lucinda,  stopping  to  caress  him,  and  on  the  edge 
of  a  flood  of  tears — and  little  wonder,  so  near  to  the  sweet 
nature  of  the  dog ! — was  stopped  by  her  own  sudden  cry, 
that  came  from  her  in  despite  of  herself.  For  there  on  the 
green  veining  of  the  marble  floor,  where  he  had  dragged 
himself,  crouching,  to  meet  her  caress,  was  a  new  streak 
that  had  no  kinship  with  the  marble,  for  it  was  red  as 
blood. 

Had  it  not  been  for  all  the  tension  of  the  morning,  she 
would  have  been  more  mistress  of  herself  than  to  cry  out 
thus  for  a  thing  which  might  have  many  explanations.  It 
might  even  have  been  the  dog's  own  blood.  A  scratch 
beneath  him  as  he  leaped  a  fence  would  have  accoimted 
for  it.  But  Lucinda's  cry  was  one  of  relief  as  well  as 
alarm,  for  she  had,  as  it  were,  a  right  to  cry  out  for  such 
a  cause.  And  it  was  heard  in  the  kitchen,  for  all  their 
clack,  as  we  have  seen.    All  came  running  out. 

"Why  is  it  blood?  What  blood?— whose  blood?'' 
Thus  Lucinda,  speaking  quickly  through  a  growing  ap- 
prehension.    She  was  ashy  white,  and  her  breath  caught. 

Then  the  three  serving-women  and  Zachary  Sharp  the 
butler,  and  Anthony  the  stable-help,  who  had  no  business 
in  the  kitchen — for  the  girl  'NeW  was,  as  Cook  said,  no 
business  of  his — all  looked  about,  and  each  at  the  other. 
But  none  found  words  except  Mrs.  Langdon,  the  house- 
keeper. "  Sakes  alive  and  save  us.  Miss  Lucy !  "  said  she. 
"  There  be  no  blood  that  I  can  see.   'Tis  in  your  eyesight.'' 

But  Rachel  Anstiss  saw  better,  and  found  Dame  Lang- 


324:  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

don  to  blame ;  for  that  was  her  way.  ^^  You  need  not  be 
so  ready  to  correct  my  lady/'  said  she.  ^'  See  the  dog's 
coat."  And  then  Lucinda  pointed  to  the  floor-stain. 
But  none  could  have  a  guess  of  what  the  blood  was. 
Zachary  the  butler  shook  his  head  as  though  he  could  tell 
something;  but  no  one  heeded  this,  none  thinking  him  a 
bit  wiser  than  his  neighbours.  Lucinda  alone  had  any 
motive  for  suspecting  bloodshed  near  at  hand. 

Presently  she  said,  ^^  He  is  my  dog  Diarmid  from  the 
New  Hall.  Take  him  and  wash  him."  And  Zachary  the 
butler  said  "  Anthony !  "  to  the  stable-help,  as  one  quali- 
iied  to  convey  instruction  from  above,  and  make  the  will 
of  his  betters  known  to  those  of  humbler  station.  Thereon 
Anthony  said,  as  though  his  authority  had  been  appealed 
to :  "  Ah,  that's  what  he  is,  he's  Diarmid.  Over  by 
Croxley."  And  the  dog  went  with  him,  having  first 
looked  round  at  Lucinda,  to  make  sure  it  was  her  will  that 
he  should  do  so. 

She  had  known  that  the  little  Swiss  clock  in  her  room 
was  a  runagate  well  ahead  of  tlie  true  time.  But  now  the 
tall  clock  in  the  hall  testified,  with  slow  decision,  to  the 
outrageous  lateness  of  the  hour.  And  still  no  Vincent! 
But  she  said  nothing  to  any  of  the  household  of  the  un- 
easiness that  was  on  her.  Only,  she  could  not  remain  in 
the  house,  but  had  perforce  to  go  to  the  main  entrance, 
from  which  she  could  see  the  road  either  way,  whether  he 
returned  the  way  he  went  or  not.  For  even  if  he  had 
gone  round  by  Lea  Down  he  would  ride  in  at  this  front 
gate.  Of  this  she  felt  sure,  and  watched  for  his  return 
with  confidence. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  watching,  and  so  eager  to 
catch  sight  of  him  at  the  very  soonest,  that  she  gave  no 
heed  to  certain  noises  in  the  house  behind  her,  betokening 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO^^OK  325 

that  something*  was  afoot.  Even  when  old  Adam  Anstiss, 
the  gatekeeper,  said  to  her,  '^  I  think  they  be  calling  for 
you  in  the  house.  Miss  Lucy  " — for  he,  too,  had  passed 
a  lifetime  at  the  Old  Hall,  and  would  speak  of  her  thus- 
even  then  she  did  not  withdraw  her  eyes  from  the  road. 

But  soon  comes  the  little  kitchen- wench,  or  scullion, 
!N^ell,  running  and  crying;  and  to  what  she  has  to  say 
Lucinda  must  needs  listen.  It  is  all  mixed  with  sobs,  and 
inarticulate  with  terror.  The  Squire  has  come  back — 
that  much  is  clear.  But,  if  he  has  come  back,  a-horseback, 
and  has  given  his  horse  to  Anthony  to  bring  round,  who  is 
this  the  little  maid  speaks  of  whom  ^'  they  are  carrying  up 
to  the  red  room  " ;  that  is,  the  room  her  father  breathed 
his  last  in.  Speed  back  to  the  house  comes  in  the  way  of 
a  clear  hearing;  yet  it  would  be  ill  economy  to  halt  and 
make  it  clearer.  A  few  steps  more  will  give  the  facts 
themselves.  A  frightening  prevision  hangs  in  Lucinda's 
mind  for  a  moment.  Has  Vincent  kept  his  saddle  despite 
of  some  bad  injury,  just  able  to  reach  home  and  fall 
insensible?  In  another  moment  she  has  rejected  the 
idea. 

It  is  scarcely  a  minute  from  the  Lodge  gate  to  the 
entrance-hall  of  the  house,  even  though  one  has  to  cross 
the  courtyard.  But  it  seems  an  age  to  Lucinda,  as  she 
almost  runs,  trying  by  the  way  to  make  sense  of  the  child's 
half-articulate  report.  Then  one  of  the  others  comes 
running  to  meet  her,  having  first  sought  her  elsewhere; 
but  on  seeing  her  stops,  and  calls  back  through  the  door  to 
someone  within,  "  Here  comes  my  lady.''  Thereon  her 
fear  for  her  brother  is  at  an  end,  for  he  meets  her  at 
the  door,  and  his  arm  is  strong  to  support  her,  and 
welcome. 

For  she  is  sick  with  an  apprehension  she  dares  not  utter. 


326  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

Yet  it  is  something,  and  no  small  thing  neither,  to  see 
Vincent's  face  so  grave  and  strong,  and  to  feel  the  strength 
of  his  arm  about  her  waist.  What  is  that  he  says  ^  She 
repeats  after  him,  as  not  understanding  his  words,  "  He 
may  live  1     How  ^  may  live '  ?  " 

He  alters  the  phrase.  "  It  may  be  that  he  will 
live." 

She  knows  in  her  heart  of  whom  he  speaks.  But,  sup- 
pose her  knowledge  is  wrong !  ^^  Oh,  Vincent,"  she  cries 
out,  *'  of  whom  do  you  speak  ?  Say  his  name,  for  God's 
sake!" 

"  Oliver-^Sir  Oliver  Raydon." 

Then  she  cried  out  aloud :  "  Oh,  Vincetit,  you  have  slain 
him !  "  And  she  thrust  her  brother  from  her,  and  would 
have  fled,  though  she  knew  not  where.  But  her  strength 
stood  her  poorly  in  stead,  and  down  she  fell,  not  swooning 
outright,  but  all  dizzy  and  insecure  of  foot.  He,  for  his 
part,  stood  by  her  but  for  a  moment,  pityingly ;  then  raised 
her  in  his  arms  as  he  might  have  raised  a  child,  she  moan- 
ing the  while,  half-unconscious,  perhaps,  and  carried  her 
to  a  room  where  there  was  a  couch  to  place  her,  and  knelt 
beside  her,  keeping  her  hand  tenderly  in  his,  and  smooth- 
ing back  from  her  brow  the  great  mass  of  black  hair  her 
fall  had  shaken  over  it.  And  then  he  found  his  voice  to 
speak  to  her  returning  consciousness. 

^'  Oh,  Lucy,  Lucy !  It  was  not  my  hand,  as  the 
chance  was,  but  the  hand  of  God — if  indeed  he  be 
slain.  But  that  I  know  not.  He  lives  still,  and  has 
spoken.   ..." 

Her  mind  seemed  to  come  back  to  her^  but  she  spoke 
without  unclosing  her  eyes,  or  rising  up. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  she  said.     "  Where  is  he  now  ?  " 

"  He  is  in  the  room  where  our  father  died,"  said  Vin- 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  327 

cent,  but  in  a  liiislaed  voice,  "  We  had  no  choice  but  to 
place  him  there.  I  had  told  them  to  carry  him  to  Roger's 
room  or  mine,  high  up.  But  as  he  was  borne  by  the  red 
room  the  blood  came  again,  that  was  stayed  for  a  time; 
and  the  surgeon  would  have  us  place  him  on  the  nearest 
bed,  so  that  he  should  be  spared  further  jolting  oa  the 
stairs.    .    ,    .'^ 

Lucinda  started  up — became,  as  it  were,  herself  again, 
but  as  one  in  panic.  "  Oh,  let  me  go  to  him  I  ^'  she  cried. 
"  I  must  go.  He  is  Oliver.  Oh,  how  can  I  be  so  near 
him  when  he  dies?  .  .  .  and  yet  .  .  ,  no! — I  can- 
not go."  And  with  that  she  sank  back  on  the  couch, 
sitting  on  in  a  kind  of  despair,  with  little  spasms  now 
and  again  of  the  clenched  hands. 

Then  she  repeated,  ^'  Xo — I  cannot  go,"  as  though  her 
mind  were  made  up.  But  she  would  be  sure  that  the  best 
was  being  done  that  might  be  for  Sir  Oliver,  and  made 
inquiry.  Oh  yes — so  said  Vincent — the  surgeon  was  with 
him,  and  he  himself  would  return  shortly  to  the  bedside 
of  the  wounded  man.  ^KTothing  should  be  neglected.  But, 
said  Lucinda,  would  it  not  be  well  that  Anthony  should 
ride  to  Caistorbury  to  summon  Dr.  Phinehas,  who  was  of 
wider  experience  than  little  Cradock  from  the  village,  who 
was  but  an  apothecary  and  the  village  barber.  "  That  was 
^  good  thought,"  said  Vincent.  "  I  will  arrange  these 
matters/^  he  added,  and  left  the  room. 

He  was  not  long  absent,  and  found  when  he  returned 
that  Lucinda  still  sat  as  he  had  left  her,  to  all  -seeming 
never  having  moved  from  her  place,  ^^  Now  I  will  tell 
you,"  said  he,  and  went  on  to  describe  his  meeting  with 
Oliver,  and  all  the  events  we  ali^ady  know.  What  has 
not  been  told  he  narrated  thus :  '^^  When  I  saw  him  stand- 
ing there  before  me,  and  thought  of  our  father  lying  dead, 


328  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE 

and  all  his  villainy  to  you — ay!  and  to  a  hundred  others 
— I  was  hard  put  to  it,  my  Lucy,  not  to  send  my  sword- 
point  on  a  good  errand  of  justice  through  his  wicked 
heart.  But  he  was  disarmed  and  defenceless,  and  I  had 
little  liking  for  a  task  that  was  fitter  for  a  hangman  or 
headsman  in  a  land  where  none  but  traitors  are  con- 
demned. So — to  cut  the  tale  short — I  bade  him  take  his 
sword  again  in  hand,  for  that  I  would  not  grudge  him  a 
man^s  death  fighting,  though  no  such  grace  was  due  to 
him  from  me  or  mine.  Brute  as  he  was^  he  had  his 
courtesies,  for  he  acknowledged  it.  ^  I  am  your  debtor,' 
said  he,  ^  for  a  grace  I  have  not  deserved.'  But  I 
thought  even  then  he  spoke  with  an  ill-command  of 
tongue.    ..." 

Lucinda  interrupted.     "  How  '  even  then  '  ?  " 

"  Wait,  and  you  shall  hear.  It  is  quickest  told  just  as 
it  chanced.  He  went  to  take  his  sword  from  where  it  had 
fallen — as   I   told  you.    ..." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it.  It  had  fallen  in  the  hole  of  a  tree- 
trunk.  I  know  the  place  well,  and  the  tree-trunk.  Amy 
and  I  would  place  letters  there,  each  for  the  other  to 
seek  and  find   ...   in  the  old  days.    ..." 

"  Well ! — the  sword  went  hilt-foremost  in,  and  the  point 
was  left  without,  six  inches  of  it  at  the  most.  I  saw  it 
blaze  in  the  sun  as  he  stooped  over  it,  reaching  into  the 
hollow  tree — let  me  tell  all  that  you  may  know — and  then 
I  heard  the  cry  he  gave,  a  bellowing  as  of  some  wild 
beast.    ..." 

Lucinda  cried  out  aloud,  "  Oh,  Heaven ! — then  it  was 
that  9  '*  And  then  Vincent  felt  the  hand  that  he  held 
clutch  his  with  all  its  strength  as  her  voice  forced  out  the 
words,  "  Go  on.  I  know  it  now."  He  went  on  steadily. 
"  It  was  the  cry  he  gave  before — that  day  at  Kips  Manor. 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N'0E  329 

I  heard  it  come  from  him  as  he  pitched  headlong,  fairly 
on  the  sword-point.  Had  I  been  close  I  could  have  saved 
him,  I  believe.    ..." 

"  Oh,  Vincent — my  brother !  Saved  him — saved  him 
to  slay  him  after !     Oh,  but  you  are  mad !  " 

"  I  cannot  clip  reasons  close  upon  it,  darling.  I  should 
have  tried  to  save  him;  that  I  know,  without  knowing 
why.  But  his  doom  came  too  quick  for  me.  .  .  .  And 
yet,  he  may  live.    .    .    ." 

^^  Go  on — go  on  where  you  stopped — Oliver  fell !  " 

^'  He  fell,  and  the  fit  was  on  him,  and  he  lay  foaming  at 
the  mouth.  But  he  slipped  from  the  sword-point,  falling 
thus,  sideways.''  Vincent  showed  his  meaning  by  a  move- 
ment of  his  hand.  ''  Nevertheless,  he  was  sorely 
wounded;  to  instant  death,  as  I  thought  then,  for  the 
blood  came  quickly.  But  they  came  up  iai  time  .  .  . 
did  I  tell  thee  of  how  I  despatched  the  boy  to  get  the 
doctor,  even  before  we  measured  swords?  .  .  .  No? 
.  .  .  Well,  I  am  but  a  poor  storyteller!  .  .  .  Any- 
how, that  was  so,  and  he  came  up  before  the  fit  subsided, 
with  others  from  the  village.  And  the  fit  was  not  long; 
indeed,  shorter  by  a  great  deal  than  at  Kips  Manor.  Lit- 
tle Cradock  would  have  it — and  he  has  more  wits  than 
you  grant  him,  Lucy — that  it  was  t!  e  blood-letting  that 
did  it.     But  I  know  not." 

''  But  what  could  he  do  for  him  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  Oliver ! '' 
The  pain  in  her  heart  came  out  in  her  cry;  for  what  Sir 
Oliver  had  once  been  to  her,  that  he  must  needs  be  still,  in 
a  certain  sense,  whatever  his  image  had  become.  She  was 
wrested  two  ways  at  once  by  a  double-seeming  of  his 
memory. 

"  What  could  he  do  ?  "  said  Vincent.  "  He  could  check 
the  hajmorrhage,  and  he  did  it,  and  cleverly,  too.     But 


330  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOls'OR 

it  was  none  too  soon,  and  for  my  part  I  thought  Sir 
Oliver  might  die  by  the  way,  for  the  litter  he  was  borne 
upon  was  a  rough  contrivance  at  the  best." 

"  Go  to  him  now,  Vincent — ^go  and  come  back,  and  tell 
me,  will  he  live  or  die  l  .  .  .  No !  dearest  boy — I  will 
not  come.  .  .  .  l!^o,  I  will  never  see  him  again*  Never 
again !  .  .  .  But  go  you,  now."  Lucinda  was  not 
speaking  as  under  any  great  stress  of  excitement,  but  as 
one  whose  mind  was  made  up.  Her  brother  made  no 
effort  to  change  her  decision. 

As  he  left  the  room,  she  caught,  through  the  door,  as  it 
opened  for  tlie  moment,  the  disturbance  of  the  household; 
the  sense  of  hurried  footsteps  and  quick  speech  in  under- 
tones, till,  closing  again,  it  left  her  in  silence  as  before. 
She  could  persuade  herself  that,  whatever  happened  with- 
out, she  would  do  well  to  take  no  part  in  it  Yet  it  was 
hard  to  hold  to  this  resolve,  an  easy  one  enough  to  keep 
had  she  been  sure  her  lover  was  not  wounded  absolutely  to 
death.  She  could  have  borne  her  renunciation  of  him  well 
enough  had  she  not  feared  it  might  be  made  irrevocable  to 
her.  Her  inner  soul  was  shuddering  at  a  dire  possibility 
in  the  beyond;  a  fierce  remorse  waiting  to  spring  on  her 
heart  from  the  darkness — a  knowledge  that  her  own  hard 
will  alone  had  stood  between  herself  and  Oliver  at  the  last 
moment.  How  should  she  face  the  extenuation  of  his 
offences  men  would  surely  make  for  him  when  he  lay 
dead,  let  alone  the  fact  that  exculpation,  well  grounded, 
might  come  to  light?  It  is  hard  work  to  hate  the  dead, 
even  those  for  whom,  when  living,  we  had  little  love. 
Oh  that  she  too  might  die! — that  was  Lucinda^s 
thought. 

But  was  her  life  her  own,  that  she  should  dare  to  wish 
it  ended  ?    She  had  asked  herself  this  question  more  thaa 


'A'N  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0R  331 

once  of  late.  It  was  a  question  few  women  would  have 
dared  to  say  yes  to,  under  Lucinda^s  circumstances. 

Presently  the  loneliness  that  had  been  a  relief  a  mo- 
ment ago  became  an  oppression ;  and,  somehow,  alleviation 
must  be  found.  Walking  restlessly  about  the  room  waB  of 
no  use.  She  went  with  sudden  hasty  energy  to  the  door, 
and,  opening  it,  listened.  No  one  was  close  at  hand.  A 
long  way  off  she  could  hear  the  voices  of  her  old  aunts — 
but  lately  risen,  no  doubt — breaking  in  on  the  house- 
keeper's, whose  continuous  current  of  speech  was  surely 
narrative  that  shocked  and  terrified.  ISTearer  voices  were 
in  the  kitchen,  each  trying  to  bear  down  the  other  with 
some  sort  of  refutation.  Her  brother,  the  butler,  and 
Cradock  the  surgeon  would  all  be  in  the  wounded  man's 
chamber — the  room  she  in  her  childhood  w^ould  watch  to 
see  her  father  come  from,  in  the  early  mornings,  to  kiss 
her  on  the  stairs,  and  go  out  with  her  in  her  own  garden, 
where  she  saw  Oliver  for  the  last  time  an  hour  since. 
What  had  become  of  the  dog?  His  love  was  so  true  and 
sound,  as  far  as  it  went,  that  she  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  him  back.  So  she  called  ^*  Diarmid — Diarmid ! '' 
He  would  be  somewhere  about^  and  would  now  be  washed 
clean  of  blood.  She  shuddered  as  she  thought  that  this 
was  Oliver's  blood. 

But  the  dog  came  not,  only  the  little  kitchen-maid  ISTell, 
asking,  did  my  lady  call  ?  Yes,  she  did.  Where  was  the 
dog — the  great  dog  ?  He  had  followed  Mr.  Anthony,  who 
had  ridden  to  Caistorbury  to  bring  with  him  the  other 
surgeon — the  funny  gentleman  who  was  so  deaf.  The 
girl  knew  all  about  it;  Mr.  Anthony  had  told  her.  Was 
Eaehel  Anstiss  gone? — Lucinda  asked,  l^ell  would  see. 
She  thought  not. 

Her  thought  was  right;   for  here  comes  Rachel,  not 


332  a:n'  affair  of  dishonor 

content  to  ask  if  my  lady  had  sent  for  her,  without  some 
quite  needless  suggestion  of  presumption  on  the  part  of 
the  kitchenmaid,  but  all  obsequious  of  her  own  part. 

It  then  appears,  in  answer  to  inquiry,  that  she  has  come 
lately  from  the  New  Hall,  having  just  arrived  when 
Lucinda  spoke  with  her  at  the  stairfoot.  She  seems  to 
consider  herself ,  provisionally  Lucinda^s  maid,  awaiting 
confirmation  of  the  appointment,  but  in  the  interim 
favoured  or  tolerated  by  Dame  Cecily,  the  housekeeper  at 
Croxley.  This  morning,  finding  that  Sir  Oliver  had  rid- 
den away  early,  telling  John  Rackham  whither  he  went, 
she  has  thought  the  occasion  good  to  further  her  own  re- 
instatement; all  the  more  readily  that — being  officious — 
she  could  convey  with  her  a  letter  brought  in  haste  by  a 
special  carrier  for  Sir  Oliver  but  a  few  minutes  after  his 
departure. 

"  Give  it  to  me !  '^  says  then  Lucinda  abruptly.  "  Why 
could  not  the  messenger  ride  on  here  with  it  himself  ?  '^ 

"  His  nag  was  forspent,  my  lady.  He  had  ridden  hard 
through  the  night,  he  said;  and  his  orders  were  to  carry 
this  letter,  being  of  a  great  importance,  to  Sir  Oliver 
Raydon,  at  Croxley  Thorpe,  or  to  give  it  into  safe  hands 
at  his  house,  but  no  further  instructions.  'Twas  Mr, 
Rackham's  idea,  and  none  of  mine,  that  I  should  carry  it, 
saying  he  had  no  mind  to  saddle  up  his  o^^m  horse  that  Sir 
Oliver  should  get  a  letter  an  hour  sooner.  So  I  took 
upon  me  to  bring  it,  riding  behind  Dickon  Weaver,  who 
was  taking  cloth  to  market.  I  had  no  thought  to 
presume.'^ 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  says  Lucinda  then  again,  and  takes  it 
from  the  woman's  hand,  saying  no  more,  and  letting  her 
think  as  she  will  about  the  presumption. 

But  Rachel  is  concerned  about  this  letter.     "  Will  you, 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  333 

my  lady,  be  pleased  to  read  what  is  wrote  upon  the 
cover  ?  "  Whereon  Lucinda,  who  has  had  it  in  her  mind 
to  let  the  letter  bide  till  she  has  disposed  of  Mrs.  Anstiss, 
glances  again  at  it,  more  closely,  and  reads,  plain  to  be 
seen,  thus : — "  He  w^ho  opens  this  letter  had  best  have  a 
care  to  sprinkle  it  with  vinegar,  and  not  to  handle  it  more 
than  is  needed  for  a  fair  reading."  Whereupon  she, 
noting  also  that  this  letter  has  three  great  black  seals, 
and  feeling  within  her  a  shrinking  from  it  as  from  some 
new  and  strange  danger,  goes  first  to  place  it  well  out 
of  reach  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  room,  and  then,  re- 
turning, says  curtly  to  Rachel  Anstiss  that  if,  as  she 
supposes,  her  object  in  seeking  her  is  to  renew  her  situa- 
tion of  tirewoman,  the  sooner  she  gives  up  the  idea  the 
better;  and  that  in  no  case  will  she  herself  ever  return 
to  Croxley  Hall,  whether  Sir  Oliver  lives  or  dies.  All 
this  she  says  as  though  each  word  gave  pain,  and  as  one 
keen  to  make  a  finish ;  ending  with,  "  You  know  your  way 
out,  Rachel  Anstiss."  Who,  being  thus  dismissed,  makes 
courtesy  and  departs. 

When  Lucinda  took  that  letter  in  her  hand  she  had,  like 
enough,  little  idea  of  what  the  black  seals  meant,  except 
that  they  could  only  portend  Death.  But  the  reading  of 
the  superscription  gave  her  a  chill.  Of  late  terrible  tales 
had  been  coming  thick  and  fast  of  the  frightful  epidemic 
from  the  East,  showing  London  as  a  plague-struck  city, 
where  no  man's  life  was  safe  for  an  hour.  Tales  of  whole 
households  blasted  with  the  irresistible  contagion;  parents 
flying  from  children  in  terror  and  leaving  them  to  die ;  the 
mother  shuddering  away  from  the  sucking  babe  at  sight  of 
the  deadly  plague-spot  on  its  little  body;  the  bridegroom 
sickening  at  the  touch  of  the  bride's  lips,  unconscious  of 
the  fatal  taint  still  hidden  by  the  bridal  robes.     Tales  of 


334  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE 

the  doors  of  houses  closed  and  sealed  on  a  household  for- 
bidden egress,  for  all  but  that  one  death  had  been  known 
within;  all  those  who  still  were  uninfected,  or  clung  to 
hope,  striving  to  escape  by  roof  or  window,  but  driven 
back ;  yes — even  of  one  who,  falling  with  a  crash  from  an 
upper  story,  was  thrust  again,  a  broken  cripple,  into  the 
charnel-house  that  once  had  been  his  home.  Of  the 
death-carts  whose  load  was  not  always  of  the  dead  alone, 
for  the  dying  w^ere  flung  in  the  plague-pits ;  and  men  went 
mad  who  heard  their  cries,  and  had  been  known  to  cast 
themselves  in  of  their  own  choice,  soon  to  be  hidden  by  the 
new  loads,  coming  fast  from  all  quarters.  And  these 
hideous  tales,  be  sure,  had  lost  nothing  in  the  telling.  So 
that  Lucinda's  mind  was  quickly  alive  to  the  meaning  of 
those  words  on  the  envelope,  and  might,  indeed,  have 
augured  ill  from  any  letter  having  such  funereal  signs 
upon  it,  coming  as  it  did  from  a  city  that  seemed  singled 
out  above  all  others  for  the  vengeance  of  God.  But  her 
mind  dwelt  on  a  false  aspect  of  this  scourge  that  had 
fallen  on  London,  always  conceiving  that  the  meaner  sort 
of  folk  alone  fell  victims,  persons  of  condition  being 
held  secure  by  some  strange  preference  of  Fortune  she 
accepted  without  questioning  or  seeking  to  find  the 
cause  of. 

But  she  would  have  no  one  touch  the  letter  but  herself, 
and  made  sure  that  it  was  well  sprinkled  with  vinegar,  as 
the  bidding  was  of  the  words  on  its  cover.  And  then  she 
locked  it  away  in  a  private  drawer  until  Sir  Oliver  should 
be  well  enough  to  read  it  himself,  as  might  be  ere  long. 
For  the  letter  was  his,  and  none  other  had  a  right  to  it, 
and  though  he  had  been  basely  disloyal  to  her,  she  was  not 
the  one  to  pay  him  in  his  own  coin.  But  she  never  entered 
the  room  where  he  lay  betwixt  life  and  death.     And  yet 


AK  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOI^OR  335 

she  could  not  bring  herself  to  listen  to  her  brother's 
counsel,  and  leave  the  house  to  find  a  home  for  a  time 
elsewhere,  as  she  might  have  done.  For  there  were  a 
many  who  loved  her  so  well  as  to  be  willing  to  give  her  a 
welcome,  despite  all  her  misdeeds,  although  they  might 
not  altogether  account  her  sinless. 


CHAPTEE  XX 

During  the  first  day  or  two  following  his  combined  in- 
juries— ^the  stab  and  the  fit  together — Sir  Oliver's  tongue 
wandered,  and  his  words  were  silly,  or  seemed  so.  And 
then  two  days  later  comes  Vincent  from  his  morning 
ride,  and,  meeting  Lucinda  at  the  outer  gate,  where  she 
awaited  his  return,  says  to  her:  ^^We  may  look  to  be 
quit  of  him  soon,  Lucy.  Speech  has  come  back  to  him, 
and  his  wits.'' 

Then  Lucinda,  who,  despite  herself,  has  been  ever  on 
the  alert  to  hear  all  her  brother  can  tell  of  the  wounded 
man's  progress,  strives  to  conceal  her  eagerness  to  hear 
more,  and  does  it  but  ill.  Vincent  sees  this,  and  is  ready 
with  his  report,  and  as  he  speaks  is  conscious  of  the  grow- 
ing interest  all  feel  who  watch  the  struggle  between  life 
and  death,  irrespective  of  the  sufferer's  claim  to  be  loved 
or  hated. 

"  He  spoke  well  and  clearly  when  I  went  to  his  bedside 
an  hour  since.  '  I  would  not  have  you  think  me  a  hypo- 
crite,' said  he,  ^  and  I  am  in  no  humour  for  a  sinner's  re- 
pentance; but  I  would  not  grudge  amends  for  the  wrong 
I  have  done,  even  for  the  sake  of  such  as  have  been  the 
worse  by  it.  To  be  short  with  you,'  says  he,  '  I  have  little 
stomach  for  the  parson  and  his  preaching,  but  I  have  as 
little  to  die  and  leave  my  memory  a  cursing-stock  for 
Lucy.'  And  then  he  was  still,  as  though  he  had  used  all 
the  breath  he  had,  and  lay  silent."  Thus  Vincent,  to 
:whom  Lucinda  made  no  immediate  reply ;  so  after  a  pause 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK  33? 

he  continued :  ^'  If  I  had  any  true  guess  of  his  meaning,  it 
was  that  his  mind  ran  on  a  wish  he  could  make  you  his 
wife,  legal  as  well  as  actual." 

Then  Lucinda  said  coldly :  "  I  am  his  wife  in  no  sense ; 
and  were  it  possible  I  should  become  so,  is  he  not  our 
f ather^s  murderer  ?  How  could  I  wed  him  1 ''  E'ow  she 
said  this  never  imagining  what  news  was  contained  in 
that  letter  that  awaited  Oliver's  fitness  to  read  it.  For  it 
was  still  lying  where  she  had  placed  it,  by  the  peremptory 
advice  of  Dr.  Phinehas,  who  would  have  it  the  result  of 
any  sudden  shock  might  be  fatal  to  his  patient,  weak  as  he 
was  from  loss  of  blood ;  and  a  sufferer,  too,  from  a  serious 
disorder. 

But  this  revival  her  brother  told  of  brought  back  the 
letter  to  her  mind,  and  she  said  to  him  as  they  rose  from 
the  breakfast-table :  "  I  suppose  the  letter  may  be  given 
to  him  now  ?  "  And  he  replied :  ^^  If  the  doctor  permits 
it.  He  must  be  asked."  To  which  she  said:  "  Of  course." 
But  neither  had  then  the  slightest  suspicion  of  the  con- 
tents of  this  letter. 

Dr.  Phinehas,  being  asked,  raised  no  objection,  but 
would  have  the  letter  first  fumigated  as  a  precaution ;  and 
it  may  be  he  was  right,  so  subtle  are  the  conditions  of  con- 
tagious disorders.  Lucinda,  having  agreed  to  this,  was 
glad  to  leave  the  delivery  of  the  letter  in  her  brother's 
hands  and  the  doctor's,  and  to  withdraw  from  mixing  her- 
self in  any  way  with  the  matter,  as  one  having  no  longer 
any  concern  in  the  affairs  of  Sir  Oliver. 

So,  as  she  goes  away  to  ride  for  an  hour  by  herself, 
towards  sunset — for  this  was  late  in  the  day,  after  Dr." 
Phinehas    had    come    and    gone — Vincent    her    brother, 
speaking  somewhat  lightly  of  the  fumigation  business  as 
but  a  needless  farce,  takes  the  letter,  now  supposed  safe  toi 


338  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK 

handle,  and  bears  it  straight  to  the  bedside  of  the  wounded 
man ;  still  in  his  bandages,  and  like  to  remain  so,  for  until 
the  healing  is  sure  and  firm,  risk  would  be  madness.  Most 
strange  is  his  keen  interest  in  his  late  opponent;  and,  in- 
deed, that  of  the  whole  household,  that  this  man  should 
recover,  seeing  what  his  deeds  have  been.  But  it  is  in 
Nature  that  it  should  be  so,  for  no  fly  is  so  poisonous  but 
that  he  who  saves  it  from  drowning  wishes  it  quick 
recovery. 

So,  as  Vincent  stood  near  the  bed,  having  found  its 
occupant  in  a  half-sleep,  and  seeing  no  reason  to  rouse 
him  to  read  a  letter  that  had  already  lain  three  days  in 
the  house,  he  felt  his  wish  for  the  patient's  recovery  run 
sharply  counter  to  his  memory  of  the  past — a  memory  that 
still  held  firm  his  sister's  wrong  and  his  father's  murder; 
for  it  was  murder  still,  to  Vincent.  But  the  present  had 
the  best  of  it,  and  when  Sir  Oliver,  opening  his  eyes  at 
the  sound  of  a  footstep,  spoke  a  greeting  to  him  clearer 
and  better  than  heretofore,  he  could  put  a  good  heart  into 
his  answer,  and  seemed  to  mean  the  hope  he  uttered  that 
in  a  while  Sir  Oliver  would  be  fit  to  travel — at  any  rate, 
the  journey  betwixt  the  Old  Hall  and  the  New.  But  do 
what  he  would,  he  had  to  stop  short  of  a  protest  against 
his  own  speech,  which  might  have  seemed  to  desire  an 
unwelcome  guest's  early  departure;  although,  indeed,  he 
had  no  such  meaning. 

'^  I  have  not  deserved  this  of  you,  Mr.  Mauleverer," 
said  Sir  Oliver.  ^^  I  would  say  rather,  I  have  deserved 
nothing  but  ill  of  you  and  yours.  But  you  take  my 
meaning?  .  .  .  Thank  you! — yes,  that  is  very  com- 
fortable." 

Vincent,  as  he  helped  to  raise  the  speaker  on  his  pillow, 
kalf  formed  the  thought  to  say  to  him,  "  We  have  an  en- 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  339 

counter  to  finish,  and  1  can  well  pray  that  your  strength 
may  return  quickly/'  but  he  kept  it  unsaid,  to  choose  a 
better  time  for  the  saying  of  it,  should  all  go  well,  saying 
only :  "  Had  the  chance  been  mine.  Sir  Oliver,  you  would 
have  played  the  part  that  has  fallen  to  me,  and  made  no 
stint — never  doubt  it!  '^  This  was  all  he  saw  his  way  to 
the  utterance  of,  a  little  grudgingly. 

"  I  trust  indeed  I  might  have  had  the  grace  to  do  so," 
said  Oliver.  ^^For  are  we  not  brothers,  each  bound  to 
take  the  other's  part  against  the  act  of  God  ?  "  To  which 
Vincent  replied  nothing;  for,  though  he  was  not  sorry  to 
hear  the  patient  speak  thus  like  himself,  the  words  spoken 
had  too  much  in  them  of  a  light  impiety  current  at  the 
time  to  be  altogether  acceptable  to  him.  But  feelings  of 
this  sort  seldom  went  with  him  the  length  of  a  reproof  to 
another.  He  had  the  letter  to  turn  to,  and  had  no  desire 
to  make  his  visit  a  long  one. 

"  This  letter,  Sir  Oliver,''  said  he,  ^'  has  been  kept  back 
from  you  at  the  doctor's  bidding,  and  has  now  been  three 
days  awaiting  your  recovery.  I  am  glad  to  say  he  thinks 
you  now  well  enough  to  read  it." 

"  How  the  devil  does  his  worshipful  sagacity  know 
what's  in  it?  "  said  Sir  Oliver.  "  Will  he  be  my  security 
that  it  is  not  a  tailor's  bill  ?  What  is  all  this,  wrote  on  the 
cover  ?  "  He  was  raised  up  on  pillows  now,  and  could  see 
the  writing  well  as  he  took  the  letter  from  Vincent,  who 
explained  briefly  the  nature  of  this  superscription  and  its 
reason,  and  accounted  for  the  strange  smell — for  Oliver 
put  it  to  his  nose — by  telling  of  the  fumigation.  "  Our 
Dr.  Phinehas  is  fanciful,"  said  he,  "  but  with  a  show  of 
reason  now  and  again." 

Then  says  Oliver,  turning  the  letter  about,  as  folk  do 
when  they  have   no  guess   of  the   contents :   "  Here's   a 


340  AN  ATFAIE  OF  DISHOISTOE 

gaudy  show  of  black  seals.  Is  the  King  dead  ?  "  Whereas 
had  he  supposed  nothing  therein  unknown  to  him,  he 
would  have  broken  the  seals  straightway,  and  no  more 
ado.  But  then  of  a  sudden  his  face  shows  a  change,  and 
clouds  over  with  thought,  and  an  eagerness  to  get  at  the 
gist  of  these  black  seals.  He  rips  them  open  with  an 
abrupt  thumb,  and  is,  in  a  moment  deep  in  a  close-written 
missive  in  a  lawyer's  hand.  So  deep  that  Vincent  says: 
"  I  will  leave  you  to  the  reading  of  this,  Sir  Oliver,  and 
return  later — ^though,  indeed,  there  is  nothing  we  need 
say  " — and  makes  as  though  to  depart.  But  Oliver  checks 
him  with,  "  I  pray  you,  one  moment !  Bear  with  this  for 
one  moment,"  and  reads  through  his  letter  with  a 
^'  Humph !  "  at  intervals.  Then  he  throws  it  from  him, 
saying :  ^^  'Tis  an  ill  wind  blows  no  man  any  good.  .  .  . 
Ay — read  it  if  you  have  a  mind,  good  Vincent ! ''  And 
then  lies  back  on  the  pillow,  as  though  his  effort  had  cost 
him  dear,  but  in  no  great  concern  about  the  contents  of 
the  letter.  His  part  of  the  provisional  suspension  of  hos- 
tility he  accepts  cordially  enough,  so  that, his  showing  of 
this  letter  to  Vincent  does  not  seem  to  the  latter  to  imply 
that  it  concerns  him  more  than  another.  He  takes  it  from 
the  coverlid  where  it  has  fallen,  without  suspicion  of  its 
contents. 

But  then  Ms  face,  too,  changes — indeed,  more  than  Sir 
Oliver's  had  done — and  an  angry  flush  grows  upon  it  as  he 
reads,  and  now  and  again  comes  a  look  of  horror,  or,  at 
least,  extremest  concern.  Time  is  needed  for  the  reading 
of  it,  and  some  of  it  calls  for  re-reading  as  soon  as  he  has 
finished  it.  Then  he  lays  it  again  where  it  was  at  first, 
saying  nothing:  but  there  is  scorn  or  anger,  or  both,  in 
his  glance  at  the  figure  on  the  bed,  and  in  his  lip  and 
nostril. 


'AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  341 

"  A  tale  to  make  the  flesh  creep,  good  Vincent/'  So 
says  Oliver,  not  a  whit  moved;  and  then  goes  on,  as 
though  some  tale  or  ballad  were  the  subject : — "  Who 
would  have  thought  the  Inns  of  Court  could  breed  a 
poet?" 

"  I  fear  he  writes  but  facts  that  are  afoot.  Sir  Oliver. 
I  see  none  of  the  poetry.  I  would  I  could  think  it  were 
so,  and  that  he  overstretched  speech  to  arouse  belief  in 
sluggard  minds.  But  there  be  tales  such  as  these  on  every 
tongue  now,  and  'tis  said  that  all  who  can  are  flying  from 
the  city,  even  as  Lot  and  his  kith  flew  from  Sodom." 

"  Spoke  like  a  book,  dear  sir,  and  a  good  book  to  boot ! 
Now  I  would  give  a  crown  to  know — was  Lot  glad  or  sorry 
at  heart  that  the  Lord  should  change  his  wife  to  a  pillar 
of  salt  ?  What  think  you  ?  "  But  Vincent  had  by  this 
become  again  absorbed  in  the  letter,  having  taken  it  frbm 
the  coverlid,  of  set  purpose,  perhaps;  for  Oliver's  talk, 
which  would  have  been  good  for  a  laugh  had  a  child  spoken 
it,  grated  on  him,  seeing  the  man  it  came  from.  At  his 
irresponsive  silence,  Oliver  chafes  a  little,  or  it  may  be  his 
healing  wound  galls  him.  For  the  voice  in  which  he  says, 
^'  Better  read  it — better  read  it  aloud !  "  shows  a  little  im- 
periously; a  tone  the  relation  of  these  two  men  scarcely 
warrants.  But  Vincent  shows  no  resentment  on  this 
account. 

"  From  the  beginning  ?  "  says  he  simply,  as  he  turns 
back  to  the  first  sheet. 

"  Heavens,  no !  Spare  us  the  compliments.  Get  to  the 
facts.  What  does  he  say  of  the  card-players? — over- 
leaf.  ..." 

'^  ^  Her  ladyship  had  won  great  sums  ? '  .  .  .  will  that 
do  ?  .  .  .all  right ! — I  will  go  on  there.  '  Her  lady- 
ship had  won  great  sums,  and  was  in  a  mighty  exultation 


342  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

for  her  success,  and  would  fain  have  continued  the  play, 
though  it  was  daylight.  But  Monsignor  Crecy,  her  part- 
ner, complaining  of  a  dizziness  or  nausea,  having  drunk, 
he  said,  too  freely  of  mulled  claret,  and  she  herself  being 
taken  with  a  most  violent  sneezing  fit,  and  thereto  my 
Lord  Carlyon  and  his  lady  who  made  up  their  party, 
swearing  they  had  lost  enough  for  two  nights'  play  in  one, 
the  card-play  was  stopped,  and  the  Lady  Arbella  was 
removed  in  her  sedan,  taking  with  her  the  whole  of  her 
winnings  in  notes  and  gold,  and  under  guard  of  an  armed 
footman  bearing  a  loaded  blunderbuss.  For  the  City  is 
nowhere  safe  now,  since  this  fearful  matter  of  the  new 
Plague,  from  which  I  beseech  your  worship  to  keep  away, 
there  being  no  safety  for  any  man,  even  the  strong  and 
healthy  falling  suddenly  in  the  very  streets,  never  reach- 
ing home  alive.  ;N"ow,  as  I  am  informed,  having  made 
the  best  inquiry  I  may,  this  armed  man,  following  afoot, 
and  close  to  the  bearer  of  the  chair,  quite  without  any 
warning  drops  his  blunderbuss,  and  lies  groaning  on  the 
pavement.  By  mere  good-fortune  this  chanced  near  St. 
James's  Palace,  where,  by  order  of  our  gracious  King, 
there  be  litters  standing  day  and  night  to  bear  away  all 
victims  of  this  dire  epidemic  to  their  homes,  if  not  too 
distant,  or,  if  they  have  wherewithal  to  pay  charges,  to 
the  nearest  refuge,  where  they  may  be  taken  in  if  there 
be  room,  as  may  have  been  the  case  with  this  man.  But 
of  this  I  know  nothing.  The  chairmen  waited  not  to  see 
the  outcome,  but  went  on  their  way,  telling  the  Lady 
Arbella  the  knave  was  but  drunk,  and  they  would  get 
her  home.  But  they  seem  to  have  been  scared  away  by 
rufflers  or  footpads,  at  whose  mercy  the  chair  and  its 
occupant  were  left,  while  they  went  to  summon  help.  Re- 
turning with  the  watch,  they  found  the  chair  had  been 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHON^OE  343 

carried  away,  nor  was  it  heard  of  again  until  midday, 
when  information  came  to  her  Ladyship's  house  that  a 
lady  was  dead  of  the  Plague  in  a  sedan-chair  tight-closed, 
near  to  the  place  that  is  called  the  Ducking  Pond,  by 
Mayfair,  no  great  distance  from  Buckingham  House;  and 
that  she  was  so  found,  but  not  long  dead,  her  money  and 
jewels  being  still  untouched.  This,  indeed,  is  all  that 
is  known  of  the  manner  of  he"  death.  She  was  borne 
with  all  care  to  her  house,  but  at  great  cost,  none  being 
found  with  courage  to  venture  on  the  task  but  a  monstrous 
bribe  must  be  paid  him.  Thus  also  the  undertaker  of 
interments  will  have  no  less  a  sum  than  one  hundred 
pounds  for  a  leaden  coffin,  such  as  befits  the  quality  of  the 
deceased,  if  he  have  to  place  therein  the  remains,  which 
now  lie  well  sprinkled  with  lime  in  an  out-house  in  the 
garden  of  her  Ladyship's  late  residence  in  the  Oxford 
Road.  For  the  doctors  say,  and  doubtless  truly,  that  this 
death  shows  a  fearful  energy  in  the  specific  virus  of  the 
disease,  quite  out  of  the  common,  the  whole  duration  of 
the  case  not  having  exceeded  eight  hours.  For  they  con- 
sider that  the  morbific  agent  was  already  active  when  her 
Ladyship  sneezed  at  the  card-table,  of  which  fact  my  Lord 
Carlyon  is  my  informant   ..." 

Sir  Oliver  interrupted  the  reader,  saying:  "Do  not  let 
me  trouble  you  further.  That  is  w^hat  I  wished  to  hear. 
Perhaps  it  is  as  well  that  I  went  not  to  London."  Then 
he  added,  speaking  with  the  easy  manner  of  a  perfect  in- 
difference :  ."  This  Carlyon  married  a  sort  of  cousin." 

"  Of  yours  ?  " 

"  Of  Lady  Eaydon's." 

Vincent  then,  feeling  that  his  concern  in  this  matter 
belonged  rather  to  the  terrible  calamity  of  this  disease, 
which  was  slaying  men  as  the  murrain  slays  cattle,  than 


344:  a:n^  affaik  of  dishojstor 

to  these  special  victims  of  whom  he  knew  nothing,  never- 
theless conceived  in  the  courtesy  of  his  heart  that  their 
case  called  for  a  word  of  mere  human  sympathy.  So  he 
said — ^for  he  had  no  great  choice  of  matter,  so  strange 
were  all  the  names  to  him — "^  This  lady,  who  has  come  by 
so  terrible  an  end,  was  she  a  near  friend  of  Lady  Ray- 
don's — this  lady  .  .  ,  ^  Arbella  ' — was  it  ^  "  He  glanced 
again  at  the  letter,  to  make  the  name  sure. 

But  before  he  raised  his  eyes  from  it,  he  could  tell  that 
Oliver  was  laughing  at  him,  but  in  a  certain  way  cau- 
tiously, keeping  in  view  his  wound.  ^^  Why,  God-a- 
mercy,  man,''  said  he,  ^^  she  was  Lady  Raydon  herself ! '' 
And  then  he  let  himself  laugh  a  shade  more  easily,  for 
the  sheer  enjoyment  of  the  thing,  despite  the  risk  he  ran. 
"  Lot^s  wife — call  her  for  the  nonce — ho,  ho !  " 

Then  indeed  Vincent's  brows  knit,  and  his  eyes  were 
stern,  and  his  voice  indignant,  as  he  said :  ^^  A  week  since, 
Sir  Oliver,  I  held  you  at  my  mercy.  A  many  would  cry 
out  upon  me  for  a  cowardly  mock  sentiment,  that  I  should 
spare  a  man  fairly  disarmed  who  had  slain  my  father,  and 
done  my  sister  wrong  beyond  his  power  to  remedy.  God 
forgive  me  that  I  should  regret  my  clemency!  But  I 
cannot  but  do  so  when  I  hear  you  speak  thus,  close  on  so 
terrible  a  death  of  the  woman  to  whom  you  at  least  owed 
a  pretence  of  respect.  At  least,  she  was  your  wife,  and 
bore  your  name.  Have  you  no  heart  at  all,  man! — not  so 
much  as  to  affect  decent  speech  beside  a  new-made 
grave  ? " 

"  I  doubt  it,  good  Vincent.  On  the  whole,  I  incline  to 
think  not.  If  there  be  any  left,  it  is  in  the  keeping  of  thy 
Lucinda.  As  for  the  worthy  woman  who  bore  my  name ; 
as  for  Lot's  wife — pardon  me,  I  can't  help  laughing! — 
all  I  can  say  is,  I  would  she  had  died  sooner,  for  my; 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:NrOR  345 

greater  convenience  and  the  avoidance  of  a  miscarriage 
that  may  be,  as  you  say,  past  remedy.  But  if  it  be  so,  be 
my  witness,  I  beg  of  you,  that  it  is  now  by  no  fault  of 
mine.  For  look  you ! — the  remedy  is  in  my  hand  now,  if 
Lucinda  be  not  averse  to  the  accepting  of  it.  'Tis  for 
her  to  choose." 

Vincent  heard  him  in  silence,  and  seemed  to  doubt  for 
a  moment  whether  he  understood  him  rightly.  Then  he 
spoke  as  though  the  interval  had  made  it  plain: 

"  She  shall  have  the  choice,  Sir  Oliver,  though  there  is 
blood  on  the  hand  you  offer !  And  you  shall  not  be  kept 
waiting  long  for  her  answer."  He  rose  and  quitted  the 
room.  But  as  he  did  so  his  words  to  himself  were  that 
he  knew  the  answer  beforehand.  And  his  anticipation 
was  true,  for  he  returned  within  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
having  met  Lucy  returning  from  her  ride ;  saying :  "  My 
sister  will  none  of  your  offer.  Sir  Oliver.  And  I  do  not 
scruple  to  rejoice  it  is  so,  though  a  many  might  say  a 
good  brother  should  grieve  at  it.  .  .  .  No — I  have  not 
influenced  her."  For  Oliver  had  half  begun  to  speak, 
with  forecast  of  reproach  in  his  voice. 

^'  Never  mind !  "  said  he.  ''  Let  the  wench  bide !  She 
may  see  reason  to  think  better  of  it.  V avium  et  mutabile 
semper  fcemina!''  For  in  those  days  catchwords  and 
quoted  phrases  of  easy  Latinity  were  more  common 
speech  than  now. 

And,  indeed,  it  did  seem  as  though  in  this  case  woman 
was  a  varying  and  changeable  thing,  for  early  the  next  day 
comes  Lucinda  to  her  brother,  and  would  speak  with  him, 
and  then  told  him  that  her  mind  was  changed  about  her 
refusal  of  Sir  Oliver's  proposal.  "  But  this  I  charge  you, 
iVincent,"  said  she,  "  that  you  ask  me  no  reasons.    Take 


346  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

my  word  for  it,  I  would  soonest  have  it  thus,  and  blame 
me  not  that  I  am  ready  to  become  the  wife  of  the  man 
whose  sword  slew  our  father.  I  do  this  thing  for  no  gain 
of  my  own,  nor  even  that  I  think  it  wrong  to  withhold 
from  Oliver  such  chance  as  may  be  of  amends  for  his 
share  in  our  sin.  I  have  my  reason,  and  a  good  one ;  else 
should  I  stickle  to  ask  thee,  my  brother,  to  take,  as  a 
brother,  a  hand  dyed  in  our  own  blood.  I»J'ow,  therefore, 
dearest  boy,  press  me  to  tell  no  more,  but  go  straightway 
to  Oliver,  and  say  that  I  am  willing  to  become  his  wife. 
Say  no  further  than  that — that  if  he  has  not  wavered  in 
his  intent,  I  for  my  part  am  willing  to  become  his 
wife." 

Thereupon  Vincent  seemed  for  awhile  lost  in  thought, 
his  eyes  resting  constantly  on  the  beautiful  face  that 
looked  up  at  him,  wherein  he  could  find  no  trace  of  irreso- 
lution or  doubt.  Seeing,  then,  nothing  in  its  aspect  to 
warrant  him  in  any  hope  that  she  would  change  her 
intent,  he  presently  said :  "  Well — I  will  go."  But  did 
not  at  once  go,  gazing  still  gravely  and  thoughtfully  on 
her  face.  At  length  he  said  briefly :  "I  have  guessed 
your  reason,  little  Lucy."  And  then  either  of  them  seemed 
to  know  the  other's  thought,  though  she  gave  no  assent 
in  words,  and  he  left  her,  to  tell  Sir  Oliver  of  the  change 
in  her  mind  towards  him.  But  this  was  strange,  that 
she  should  not  offer  to  tell  him  herself.  Yet  by  what 
canon  or  rule  of  conduct  shall  we  judge  a  woman  in  a 
position  in  which  no  man  can  ever  be  placed,  and  but  a 
few  women,  for  which  God  be  praised ;  and  even  then  only 
such  as  have  in  some  sense  broken  His  law,  and  slighted 
His  commandment! 

So  we  need  not  wonder  that  speculation  is  at  a  loss 
in  seeking  to  account  for  Lucinda's  shrinking  from  the 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHO:^OR  347 

presence  of  the  man  she  was  so  soon  to  call  her  husband. 
Let  it  be! — for  even  if  surmise  were  possible,  it  may  be 
language  would  be  at  fault  to  tell  it,  or  hard  to  find. 
This  alone  is  certain,  that  during  the  days  that  had  to 
pass  before  the  preliminaries  of  their  wedding  were  com- 
plete, she  refused  to  enter  the  room  where  he  still  lay, 
dragging  on  through  a  slow  recovery,  for  the  healing  of 
his  wound  was  backward,  and  any  movement  would  have 
been  a  danger  to  him.  Yet,  more  than  once,  when  her 
brother  was  (to  her  knowledge)  in  the  room,  on  a  visit 
to  the  wounded  man  which  he  made  at  stated  intervals, 
she  waited  stealthily  at  the  door,  listening  for  the  voices 
within,  but  moving  quickly  and  quietly  away  whenever 
a  sound  came  as  of  an  interview  that  ends;  a  thing  of 
which  one  may  easily  judge  from  a  tone  of  joyousness  at 
near  parting,  not  in  all  cases  easy  to  understand.  l^J'ot 
that  she  could  overhear  the  words  within,  or  had  any 
wish  to  do  so ;  but  that  she  found  a  tepid  pleasure  in  this 
stinted  presence  at  the  interviews  of  Oliver  and  Vincent. 
Mere  longing  for  the  companionship  of  human  voices  it 
was  not,  for  had  she  chosen  she  might  have  alleviated 
her  solitude  in  a  thousand  ways.  But  she  denied  herself 
to  all  who  sought  her,  even  to  many  she  had  known  from 
childhood,  and  lived  in  her  own  heart  making  no  con- 
fidence with  any,  though  she  could  not  avoid  seeing  and 
speaking  with  guests  that  came  and  went.  But  these 
were  usually  received  by  the  two  old  ladies  her  aunts, 
who  lived  apart  without  hostility,  under  one  of  those 
tacit  compacts  that  grow  in  families;  always  joining 
in  family  meals  or  family  prayers,  and  retiring  with 
ceremony  afterwards  to  their  especial  room;  a  practice 
not  to  be  accounted  for,  but  religiously  observed,  and 
seeming  a  part  of  the  essence  of  things  to  the  younger 


348  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

generation,  for  whom  nothing  had  been  otherwise  since 
childhood. 

At  this  time  these  ladies  were  so  far  recovering  from 
the  shock  of  their  brother's  death,  and  the  almost  worse 
calamity,  as  they  accounted  it,  of  their  niece's  elopement 
with  a  married  man,  as  to  encourage  the  visits  of  a  few 
very  old  friends  of  the  family  from  the  neighbourhood. 
But  though  it  was  impossible  for  Lucinda  to  keep  quite 
out  of  sight,  her  intercourse  with  these  was  limited  to 
mere  exchange  of  courtesies,  and  in  the  absence  of  her 
foster-brother  Roger  Locke,  she  scarcely  saw  anyone  but 
her  brother  Vincent,  and  seemed  best  contented  that  it 
should  be  so.  And  so  the  time  passed  until  the  day  fixed 
for  the  unostentatious  ceremony  which  was  to  make  her 
the  wife,  in  law,  as  she  accounted  herself  in  fact,  of  the 
man  who  had  betrayed  her  innocence,  slain  her  father, 
and  strained  deception  to  its  utmost — a  man  who  had 
shown  himself,  too,  so  callous  a  brute  to  that  poor  victim 
of  the  Plague,  so  miserably  dead;  the  image  of  whom, 
derived  from  Vincent's  report  of  the  contents  of  that 
letter,  hung  in  Lucinda's  mind  like  a  nightmare.  That 
lime-sprinkled  thing  that  had  lived  and  breathed  so 
lately,  in  the  outhouse  of  its  late  home,  none  daring  to 
approach  or  touch  it,  was  a  sickening  image  to  a  mind 
like  hers.  Was  this  woman  not  his  wedded  wife  after 
all  ?  They  had  quarrelled — ^yes !  But  many  couples  quar- 
rel, and  live  apart,  and  yet  remain  human. 

Yet  this  manifest  unveiling  of  the  soul  of  this  man, 
its  seeming  callousness  and  cynicism,  became  no  obstacle 
to  Lucinda's  resolve  to  become  his  legal  wife.  And  this 
although  her  whole  heart  revolted  against  the  received 
idea  of  so  many  women  that  a  past  sin  is  wiped  away  by 
the  formal  usage  of  the  Sacrament,  and  vanishes  before 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIS^OK  349 

the  blessing  of  a  priest.  Although,  too,  she  knew  well 
that  the  world's  scorn  of  a  successful  man's  captured 
quarj-y  would  only  be  outwardly  abated  by  it.  All  the 
finger-pointings,  the  whisperings  behind  palms,  the 
chamber-chat  and  under-smiles,  would  go  on  just  the 
same  about  my  Lady  Ray  don.  Sir  Oliver's  second  wife, 
as  they  had  done — never  doubt  it ! — about  Lucy  Maulev- 
erer.  Whatever  of  honour  and  respect  was  paid  her 
would  be  paid  to  her  rank,  to  a  position  she  had  never 
coveted;  none  of  it  to  herself.  Whatever  the  impulse 
had  been  that  changed  her  first  resolve  to  leave  her  lover 
for  good,  it  had  worked  in  spite — not  with  the  help — of 
any  of  the  inducements  that  would  have  weighed  with 
another  woman.  So  this  impulse  was  a  strong  one,  no 
doubt;  and  the  fact  that  no  further  allusion  was  made 
to  it  by  either  herself  or  her  brother  looks  as  though  she 
was  well  satisfied  that  he  understood  her,  and  that  he 
for  his  part  knew  it. 

The  two  old  ladies,  Aunt  Araminta  and  Aunt  Elsie, 
when  first  told  of  the  death  of  Lady  Raydon  and  the 
proposed  marriage  of  their  niece,  placed  themselves  in  an 
attitude  of  meek  revolt.  How  could  they  altogether 
overlook  the  past?  How  could  they  receive  their  new 
nephew,  a  rake  and  profligate,  with  their  own  brother's 
blood  upon  his  hands  ?  No ! — let  Lucy  marry  her  lover 
if  she  would.  It  was  not  for  them  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
such  repentance  and  expiation  as  might  be;  such  amends 
as  the  outraged  honour  of  the  family  demanded.  But 
let  them  remain  quite  out  of  it.  Why  should  their  wel- 
come to  Oliver  go  beyond  the  claim  of  a  formal  necessity 
they  were  ready  to  acknowledge  for  Lucinda's  sake  ?  Let 
the  married  couple,  when  the  knot  was  tied,  be  off  to  the 
New  Hall  and  lead  a  life  that  would  please  them,  no 


350  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE 

doubt,  among  friends  of  their  own  choice.  .  .  .  Oh 
no! — they  would  not  interdict  all  visits  of  the  new- 
married  couple  at  the  Old  Hall.  Certainly  not!  That 
would  only  provoke  gossip.  All  they  meant  was — ^let  them 
keep  out  of  it !  Why  not  leave  them  at  peace  in  their  own 
suite  of  apartments,  where  they  neither  made  nor  med- 
dled with  the  outside  affairs  of  the  household  ? 

Vincent,  on  whom  the  task  of  negotiating  with  them 
fell,  made  every  concession  to  the  attitude  of  reserve 
they  desired  to  maintain  after  the  new  state  of  things  was 
fairly  established,  provided  only  that  they  gave  their 
consent  and  countenance  to  the  wedding,  and  attended 
the  ceremony.  He  pointed  out  the  injury  their  refusal 
to  do  so  w^ould  occasion  to  Lucinda,  and  to  this  they  gave 
their  assent.  But  they  nearly  withdrew  it  on  hearing 
that  Lucinda  had  decided  to  be  married  in  black,  saying — 
very  much  to  Vincent's  surprise,  for  he  had  anticipated 
their  approval — that  such  a  course  would  bring  lasting 
disgrace  on  the  family.  He  could  not  understand  this, 
but  to  our  thinking  many  women  might  have  thought  the 
same;  their  idea  being  that  though  the  past  could  not  be 
changed,  it  might  at  least  be  ignored.  Men  and  women 
see  these  things  differently. 

Lucinda  made  some  concession  about  her  dress;  for, 
what  did  she  care  ?  She  cared  for  nothing,  in  fact,  what- 
ever her  motives  were,  but  to  go  through  with  the  thing, 
having  once  agreed  to  it. 

So  the  days  pass  on — the  few  days  needed  for  com- 
])letion  of  needful  arrangements,  and  for  a  greater  safety 
for  Sir  Oliver  when  the  time  comes  for  him  to  leave  his 
couch.  There  he  is  to  remain  to  the  last  moment,  to 
have  his  fullest  chance  of  a  complete  recovery.  Through 
these  days  Lucinda  lives  much  alone,  speaking  little  but 


AN^  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOK  351 

to  her  brother;  riding  alone  by  choice;  even  without  the 
groom,  when  going  no  great  distance  from  home.  Much 
of  her  day  is  spent  in  her  own  garden, — for  the  season 
is  still  mild,  and  there  is  no  rain,  more  than  is  needed  to 
keep  the  air  fresh  overhead  and  the  turf  green  underfoot 
— but  some  of  it  at  the  virginal,  only  that  she  never  found 
her  voice  to  sing,  seeming,  too,  to  grudge  speech  and  live 
in  a  mute  despair,  neither  taking  joy  from  the  prospect 
before  her,  nor  shrinking  from  it.  Having  chosen,  she 
was  resolute.  But  she  always  refused  to  go  to  the  bedside 
of  the  wounded  man,  saying :  '^  What  can  it  matter  to 
Oliver  that  he  should  see  me  again  a  day  sooner  or  later  ? 
Let  him  get  well  of  his  injury,  and  be  content."  And 
in  this  she  had  the  support  of  Dr.  Phinehas. 

It  is  a  strange  household  during  those  few  days:  the 
lonely  woman,  shunning  all  companionship,  the  silent 
master  visiting  at  intervals  the  murderer's  bedside — for 
he  calls  him  by  no  other  name  in  his  heart  still,  for  all 
he  is  so  soon  to  be  Lucinda's  husband  and  his  brother — 
the  hushed  voices  of  the  servants,  the  weight  of  the 
silence  that  is  felt  the  more  for  the  few  sounds  that  break 
it.  Now  and  then,  the  shouted  speech  to  the  queer  deaf 
old  surgeon  when  he  makes  his  daily  visit,  or  a  distant 
phrase  on  the  harpsichord  in  the  twilight.  And  in  the 
midst  of  it  the  cause  of  all,  lying  on  the  bed  of  the  man 
he  slew;  chafing  now  under  the  restraint,  but  not  ventur- 
ing to  rebel;  unrepentant  in  his  wicked  heart,  even  with 
a  sneaking  triumph  hanging  round  it,  the  triumph  of  the 
gambler  who  has  staked  high  and  w^on.  If  there  is  one 
throb  in  that  heart  that  makes  for  his  redemption,  it  is 
the  one  that  is  stirred  by  the  thought  that  Lucinda  is  to 
be  again  his  own.  His  own  this  time,  not  as  a  banquet 
to  mere  satiety,  to  be  flung  away  at  pleasure;  but  as  a 


362  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOE^OK 

magic  jewel  to  be  worn,  reflecting  from  its  facets  some 
sun  his  eyes  have  of  themselves  no  power  of  seeing,  giv- 
ing a  light  half-unwelcome  at  one  time  to  his  soul.  It 
may  now  penetrate  to  its  recesses,  to  reach  and  slay  the 
foul  insect-growths  that  light  destroys.  Or  he  may  be 
the  Oliver  we  have  known  him  to  the  end. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Of  all  sad  ceremonials,  a  melancholy  wedding  is  the 
saddest.  It  might  be  less  so,  if  usage  and  tradition  would 
but  accept  its  sadness — acknowledge  it  and  consent  to 
silence.  But  it  is  distinctly  understood  that  marriage- 
bells  are  merry;  and  the  blacker  the  cloud  that  hangs 
about  the  hearts  of  the  principal  actors,  the  more  does 
the  complaisant  guest  conceive  it  his  duty  to  be  cheerful. 
Yet  a  point  may  be  reached  where  no  grin  can  be  feigned, 
to  make  the  celebration  less  like  a  funeral. 

Such  a  point,  at  the  wedding  of  Sir  Oliver  and  Lucinda, 
owed  its  being  to  the  knowledge  common  to  all,  spoken 
of  by  none,  that  the  bride's  father,  beloved  through  all 
the  countryside,  had  died — and  that  not  so  long  ago — • 
by  the  hand  of  the  bridegroom.  The  fact  that  the  couple 
had  anticipated  their  opportunities  before  the  tragic 
death,  from  the  Plague,  of  a  wife  who  was  tacitly  assumed 
to  have  been  the  only  obstacle  to  a  legal  marriage,  might 
have  been  forgotten.  For  these  things  happen,  one 
knows;  and  if  one  is  not  prepared  to  forget  them  on 
occasion  shown,  why  come  to  the  wedding  at  all  ? 

Lucinda  held  firmly  to  her  resolution  not  to  see  Sir 
Oliver ;  and  her  first  sight  of  him  was  at  the  little  village 
church  where  the  marriage  was  solemnised.  Or,  rather — 
would  have  been,  had  her  eyes  rested  on  him.  But  all 
that  can  be  said  is,  that  if  they  did,  none  saw  it.  For,  as 
the  guests  who  were  bidden  to  the  Hall  followed  the  foot- 
steps of  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  returning,  there  was 

353 


854  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

but  one  word  among  them,  spoken  above  the  breath  of 
none :  ^^  She  never  looked  at  him !  "  And  the  like 
speech  was  current  among  the  neighbours  and  villagers 
who  dispersed  after  the  ceremony. 

It  seemed  a  common  consent  that  there  should  be  no 
festivity.  The  guests  departed  early.  Within  a  couple  of 
hours  after  the  completion  of  the  ceremony,  all  but  one 
or  two  were  on  their  way  home,  talking  over  the  story 
of  it  all ;  ascribing  to  the  bridegroom  a  repentance  for  his 
past  misdeeds,  on  the  strength  of  a  pallor  of  face  and 
faltering  step  that  were  due  probably  only  to  his  recent 
loss  of  blood;  and  to  the  bride — for  they  were  less 
charitable  to  her — a  harder  heart  than  each  of  them,  for 
one,  would  ever  have  suspected  in  her.  But  they  admitted 
that,  behind  that  stony  demeanour,  there  might  be  some- 
thing concealed.  Who  can  penetrate  the  human  heart? 
And  so  on.  Let  them  all  go,  and  talk  it  out  to  their 
own  liking. 

Sir  Oliver  was  near  the  last  ebb  of  his  powers  by  the 
time  all  had  gone,  and  stood  in  need  of  assistance  to  reach 
his  sleeping-room,  where  he  might  lie  down  to  recover 
from  what  had  been  a  great  fatigue  to  a  man  slowly  re- 
gaining strength  after  so  profuse  a  loss  of  blood.  He 
did  so  at  once,  and  very  shortly  fell  into  a  deep  sleep, 
and  nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  disturbing  him;  more- 
over. Dr.  Phinehas,  who  had  deprecated  so  much  exer- 
tion— saying  if  the  wedding  were  to  come  off,  it  would 
be  safest  to  bring  the  parson  to  the  patient's  bedside — 
was  of  opinion  that  Sir  Oliver  had  best  sleep  on  as  long 
as  Nature  should  dictate.  So  he  was  undisturbed,  and 
did  not  wake,  as  every  pains  was  taken  to  insure  quiet, 
until  well  on  into  the  dusk. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  355 

Now  the  arrangement  had  been  agreed  upon,  as  Oliver 
was  still  in  this  stage  of  convalescence,  that  no  attempt 
should  be  made  to  get  him  over  to  his  own  house;  but 
that  he  and  the  new-made,  or  newly-ratified.  Lady  Ray  don 
should  remain  for  the  present  at  the  Old  Hall,  at  least 
until  Sir  Oliver  should  be  safe  in  a  saddle,  a  thing  as  yet 
out  of  the  question,  except  a  mount  could  be  found  a 
very  miracle  of  meekness.  His  own  horse,  Alcibiades, 
was  scarcely  that.  For  a  slight  shaking  might  renew  the 
haamorrhage,  said  Dr.  Phinehas,  and  a  recrudescence  of 
a  wound  is  a  double  evil.  And  this  arrangement  being 
made,  by  common  consent,  it  was  nowise  strange  that 
the  married  couple  should  be  left  in  sole  possession  of  the 
house;  although  in  this  case  the  occasion  scarcely  called 
for  the  fulfilment  of  the  usage  which  leaves  new-wedded 
folk  to  their  own  company.  Nor  was  it  altogether,  for 
the  two  old  ladies  still  kept  their  part  of  the  house, 
showing  their  consciousness  of  the  tenants  of  the  other 
part  by  speaking  in  undertones,  and  treading  noiselessly; 
a  thing  which  had  no  foundation  in  necessity,  but  seemed 
to  comply  with  some  unwritten  law. 

With  the  exception  of  Vincent,  who  was  not  sorry  to 
get  quit  of  Sir  Oliver  without  taking  leave  of  him  for- 
mally, an  observance  that  would  have  had  its  embarrass- 
ments, Roger  Locke  was  the  last  to  quit  the  house;  heavy 
enough  at  heart,  as  may  be  imagined.  Then  Vincent 
found  himself  standing  alone  with  Lucinda,  in  doubt  if 
his  wisest  course  would  not  be  to  say  farewell  in  silence. 
He  had  settled  to  go,  at  a  friend's  invitation,  to  a  house 
at  some  distance,  definitely  to  remain  there  until  Sir 
Oliver  should  be  able  to  return  to  his  own  home.  Surely 
it  was  impossible  that  they  two  should  live  under  one 
roof!     The  wounded  man's  wavering  between  life  and 


356  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

death  had  made  a  curious  relation  between  them  possible 
for  the  time  being,  due  somehow — Vincent  acknowledged 
the  oddity  of  this  to  himself — to  the  mere  supineness  of 
the  man  he  hated,  helpless  on  a  bed.  But  to  see  him 
moving  about  the  house  ...  his  sister's  husband!  .  .  . 
his  father's  murderer!  .  .  .  Vincent  knew  from  his 
short  experience  of  the  ceremony  that  life  on  such 
terms  would  be  unendurable.  Yet  he  could  not  have 
opposed  the  marriage — impossible!  Oh,  that  he  had 
given  short  shrift  when  he  had  the  villain  at  his  sword's 
point!  Had  he  not  perhaps  thought  more  of  a  Quixotic 
chivalry  than  of  his  duty  to  his  father  ? 

Such  thoughts  mixed  themselves  with  the  unspoken 
question,  "  What  will  my  sister  say  ?  "  as  he  stood  there 
looking  in  her  pallid,  weary  face;  forgiving  her  all  her 
past,  only  in  dread  for  her  future.  Even  if  he  had  not 
known  of  her  revolt  against  Oliver ;  even  if  he  could  have 
imagined  that  her  old  infatuation  still  lived,  how  could 
he  augur  well  of  such  an  alliance,  so  made — with  such  a 
man  ?  But,  for  Lucinda,  it  was  the  only  road  to  a  patched- 
up  honour,  and,  above  all,  the  only  justice  possible  to 
that  veiled  future,  the  life  of  a  babe  unborn.  He  could 
have  no  right  to  stand  between  his  sister  and  the  strongest 
claim  of  Nature's  scheming,  the  child's  claim  upon  the 
parent  for  an  undishonored  name.  So  he  reasoned  with 
himself  as  he  awaited  her  words  to  come. 

But  she  never  spoke;  she  left  speech  to  her  brother. 
Her  face  touched  his  in  silence,  but  it  was  with  cold  lips, 
and  he  could  feel  the  coldness  of  her  cheek  as  it  met  his. 
As  he  stood  there,  holding  her  in  his  arms,  just  about  to 
gay  farewell,  there  shot  across  his  mind  a  memory  of  old 
days,  that  cut  him  to  the  heart.  A  memory  of  his  own 
parting  from  his  two  little  sisters  under  that  very  porch 


A-N  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOI^OR  357 

on  a  windy  morning  in  the  spring,  eight  years  ago;  and 
of  Lucy  saying  with  confidence,  of  the  day  of  his  return : 
'^  We  shall  both  be  married  when  you  come  back,  Vin." 
Whereupon  Amy  had  helped  prediction  boldly,  saying: 
"  Yes.  And  Lucy's  baby  is  to  be  a  little  boy.  And 
mine  is  to  be  a  little  girl."  For  Amy  was  very  young 
and  inexperienced.  But  Lucy,  better  informed,  had 
said :  ^^  Hush,  Amy  dear,  you  mustn't  talk  like  that." 
And  then  of  his  riding  away  in  a  rainbow  shower,  tears 
in  his  eyes  and  his  heart  full  to  bursting — for  he  had 
never  left  the  girls  before,  only  for  school.  But  it  shot 
across  his  mind  now,  and  the  world  was  the  darker  to  him 
for  the  thought  of  that  wild  hour  of  childish  recklessness 
and  hope.  He  found  no  words  in  the  end,  and  had  to 
choke  back  a  sob  as  he  gave  his  sister  his  last  kiss  and 
turned  to  go.     Then  she  spoke. 

^'  Oh,  Vincent  darling,  do  not  go !  Wait — wait  till 
I  can  speak.  ..."  And  then,  in  a  lower  tone,  speak- 
ing quickly :  "  You  did  understand  me  ?  You  do  under- 
stand me?     I  mean  you  understand  why   ..." 

"  Oh  yes — ^yes,  yes — I  understand."  He  spoke  a  little 
more,  almost  in  a  whisper,  close  to  her  ear.  To  which 
she  reolied  aloud:  ^^  That  was  what  I  meant."  Then  he 
too  raised  his  voice,  and  spoke  more  hopefully.  "  Making 
the  worst  of  things  will  not  bring  our  father  back  to  life. 
^Nothing  will  change  the  past,  for  us.  At  least  let  us  give 
the  future  a  chance.  I  tell  thee  this,  Lucy,  that  if  Oliver 
had  not  spoiled  his  act  of  grace,  I  might  have  had  my 
hopes  of  him.    ..." 

"  Tell  me  how  you  mean — ^  spoiled  his  act  of  grace  ?  '  " 

"  I  mean  he  might  have  had  a  decent  respect,  or  made  a 
pretence  of  it,  for  that  poor  lady  that  is  dead  of  the 
Plague.     But  none  can  know  he  was  in  earnest  over  it. 


358  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N'0R 

And  he  has  shown  some  spirit  of  repentance  in  his  bear- 
ing to  thee,  my  Lucy.  It  may  be  he  will  be  a  better  old 
man  than  a  young  one.  Hope,  Lucy,  hope !  '^  But  this 
was  only  good  will  for  his  sister's  sake,  for  he  could  not 
for  the  life  of  him  keep  from  adding :  "  And  yet — he 
slew  our  father!  " 

Then  Lucinda  made  a  curious  speech.  "  I  shall  not  be 
much  with  Oliver,"  said  she.  But  she  said  it  so  slightly, 
and  finished  so  quickly  with  "  Better  ride  before  the  rain 
comes!  Good-bye,  dearest  brother — never  fret  about 
me !  "  that  Vincent  let  slip  his  first  impulse  to  ask  her  to 
explain,  and  never  recalled  it  until,  a  mile  on  his  road,  it 
came  back  to  him  to  wonder  what  she  had  meant. 

Said  Dr.  Phinehas  that  evening,  coming  from  Sir 
Oliver's  room,  having  been  in  attendance  most  part  of  the 
day,  as  a  precaution :  "  If  my  advice  is  taken,  my  Lady 
Kaydon " — he  was  mighty  particular  about  Lucinda's 
style  and  title  now — "  the  worshipful  Sir  Oliver  will  do 
well  to  take  entire  rest  after  his  exertions  of  to-day,  which 
have  been  to  my  thinking  ill-advised.  Your  ladyship's 
influence  may  work  with  an  intractable  patient  that  is 
beyond  my  powers  to  control.  I  beseech  you  to  use  it  to 
the  end  that  he  may  remain  recumbent  until  all  local  pain 
of  healing  has  subsided."  Then,  after  a  word  or  two  of 
protest  against  Sir  Oliver's  attitude  of  revolt  against  all 
medical  advice,  he  took  his  departure,  full  of  dignity. 

Then  goes  Lucinda  to  the  couch  where  her  lover,  now 
her  husband,  is  lying.  He  is  in  a  half-doze  still,  his  sleepi- 
ness seeming  unconquerable.  She  watches  him  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  then  goes  away  to  the  window,  and 
looks  out  over  the  dusky  land,  now  swept  by  a  rain-drift, 
though  the  sundown  has  left  a  long  rift  of  light  on  the 
horizon.    Her  face  has  no  change  or  movement  on  it,  but 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0K  359 

tears  are  there,  plain  in  the  gleam  to  the  little  maid  Nell, 
who  is  attending  to  some  small  matter  of  the  room's 
arrangements. 

Presently  comes  Oliver's  voice  from  the  couch :  "  Lu- 
cinda — ^where  art  thou,  silly  girl?  Dost  thou  know  what 
thou  art,  Lucy  ?     My  wife,  wench — think  o'  that !  " 

She  stands  beside  him  white  and  nerveless;  lets  him 
take  her  inanimate  hand,  but  has  no  answer  ready  for 
him ; — says  only,  '^  They  are  all  gone  now,"  meaning  that 
they  are  now  alone  in  the  house. 

^'  Let  them  go  or  stay ! — what  a  plague  care  I  ?  Thou 
art  off  the  point,  girl.  Come,  speak  me  fair,  Lucy  mine ! 
Say  I  have  done  thee  one  good  turn.  There's  never  an- 
other doxy  of  mine  I  would  have  done  the  like  for. 
What  the  devil,  woman! — what  w^ould  you  have  a  man 
do?" 

"  I  have  no  fault  to  find  with  you  for  this,  Oliver.  You 
have  done  right  by  me,  and  the  end  is  gained." 

"  Why,  then — what  more  would  you  have  ?  What's  to 
fret  and  shiver  about  ?  Dry  thy  tears,  lass,  and  let's  have 
an  end  on't.  'Odsflesh,  Lucy,  where  is  thy  Christian 
forgiveness?  Was  it  such  a  crime  to  keep  thee  a  bit 
longer  in  ignorance  about  that  luckless  thrust  of 
mine  ? "    .    .    . 

"  It  was  no  luckless  thrust,  Oliver,  but  had  a  deadly 
intent.  You  are  my  husband,  but  my  father's  blood  is 
upon  you." 

"  Luckless  or  no,  where  would  the  gain  have  been  to 
thee  to  know  it,  till  none  could  have  it  otherwise — a  month 
or  so  sooner  or  later.  Where  is  the  great  grievance  against 
me  that  I  played  off  a  little  act  of  policy  to  keep  some  bad 
news  back  awhile,  for  thy  ease  and  comfort  as  well  as  my 
own,  silly  wench  ?    Besides,  'tis  the  old  story  of  the  gnat 


360  AK  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOIs^OR 

and  the  camel.  He  who  can  stomach  the  great  brute, 
hump  and  all,  need  not  be  so  peevish  about  a  mere  fly. 
Where  was  it  so  great  an  offence,  to  keep  you  in  the  dark 
about  the  way  the  luck  fell.  .  .  .  What? — you  cannot 
understand!  What  is  it  you  cannot  understand?  .  .  . 
Come,  Lucy,  you  forgave  me  the  mischance  once — forget 
me  now  the  story  of  the  letters,  and  be  thyself  again. 
At  least  call  me  not  murderer,  after  a  clean  shrift 
once  given.  'Tis  a  shabby  trick,  girl,  to  go  back  on 
forgiveness." 

This  is  all  mystery  to  Lucinda,  and  complete  bewilder- 
ment is  in  her  voice,  as  she  says,  ''  What  your  meaning 
can  be,  Oliver,  I  cannot  conceive.  Why — when  have  I 
spoken  a  word  of  pardon  ...  of  pardon,  think  of  it! — 
think  of  it! — for  my  father's  murder.  .  .  .  But  you 
are  mad,  Oliver;  this  is  madness."  And  she  shudders 
as  she  thinks  to  herself  how  Dr.  Phinehas  had  told  her 
we  must  always  beware  of  insanity  in  those  subject  to 
the  falling  sickness. 

But  Oliver's  bewilderment  is  equal  to  hers.  He  half 
rises  on  his  couch,  crying  out  "  Why,  God-a-mercy !  .  .  . " 
and  then  sinks  back,  exclaiming :  "  Was  it,  after  all,  a 
trick  of  that  jade's  witchcraft  ?  " 

"  What  on  earth  is  all  this  ?  "  says  Lucinda.  And  her 
fear  grows  in  her  heart  that  Oliver  is  really  insane,  and 
stops  her  speech.  But  she  is  herself  again  before  he  sees 
his  way  to  another  word.  *'  Was  what  a  trick  of  witch- 
craft ? "  she  says,  clearly  enough. 

He  swings  up  from  the  couch,  disregarding  the  doctor's 
caution.  "  Have  you  forgotten !  "  he  cries.  ''  Can  you 
have  forgotten  that  time  in  the  dark,  at  Kips  ? — after  the 
storm  ? — after  I  told  you  ?  " 

She  sits  and  thinks.     "  What  do  I  remember  ?  "  she 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0K  361 

sajs.  And  then,  "  I  left  you,  Oliver,  lying  in  your  fit, 
upon  the  floor." 

''  No  more  than  that  ? '' 

^'  No.  After  that  I  rode  away  with  John  Rackham. 
1.  .  .  Yes — stop,  though!  I  returned  and  kissed  you; 
shame  for  me  that  I  did  so!     Then  I  rode  away.'' 

^^  Yes — yes — yes !  But  before  you  rode  away !  We 
spoke.   ..." 

"  No!  " 

^^  Yes,  I  tell  you !  I  rememher  all  plainly.  I  came  to 
my  senses,  and  there  you  were,  in  the  dark  .  .  .  yes — 
I  felt  your  lips  on  my  face.    ..." 

"  Oh,  Oliver,  how  could  that  be  ?  You  lay  there  in- 
sensible  .    .    .  well ! — you  never  spoke !  " 

''  I  never  spoke !  I  spoke,  I  tell  you,  plainly,  and  you 
spoke  back.   ..." 

^^  Never!" 

"  I  tell  you  I  did,  .  .  .  No — I  do  not  recollect  all  I 
said.  But  I  did  say  ^  Have  you  not  forgiven  me  ? '  And 
you  answered  me  plain,  ^  Surely,  Oliver,  surely ! '  Why, 
I  can  remember  the  very  rings  on  your  fingers — there 
in  the  dark.  And  then  you  called  Trant,  to  get  us  a  light. 
You  must  recollect  that!  The  storm  was  over,  and  there 
was  never  a  gleam  of  lightning  to  see  by,  nor  no  moon. 
Oh,  but  you  must  remember!  "  His  voice  has  alarm  in  it 
such  as  shows  in  the  tones  of  one  who  mistrusts  touch  or 
eyesight,  or  is  conscious  of  something  eerie  afoot. 

Lucinda  controls  the  alarm  she  too  feels,  but  it  is  for 
his  reason.  "  It  was  a  dream,"  she  says,  quietly  enough. 
^'Why — only  hearken  to  tliis!  I  had  ridden  well  past 
Merrows  Camp  when  the  storm  burst.  How  could  I  be  in 
two  places  at  once  ?  'Twas  a  dream,  Oliver — a  dream !  " 
But  she  had  a  sort  of  pity  too  for  him,  that  he  should  have 


362  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

built  upon  a  seeming  pardon,  though  it  was  only  an  hallu- 
cination of  a  distempered  mind. 

This  time,  the  thing  has  been  spoken  of,  and  he  will  not 
let  it  pass.  "  A  dream ! ''  says  he.  '^  How  could  it  be  a 
dream?  If  it  were  one,  Trant  dreamed  it  as  well  as  I. 
.  .  .  How  do  I  know  ?  Plain  enough.  She  heard  you 
calling  to  her  aloud  to  strike  a  light,  and  come.  I  heard 
you  call  to  her  myself,  after  you  left  me — in  the  dark,  I 
tell  you.  No — no — no,  Lucy!  If  I  dreamed  it,  she 
dreamed  it  too.     ^Twas  no  dream." 

"  And  this  was  after  the  storm  ?  " 

"After  the  storm." 

"  And  I  was  half  a  league  on  the  road  before  the  storm 
began.  Noj  Oliver — ^you  have  told  me  too  many  lies  for 
me  to  receive  that  story.     'Tis  a  make-believe.    ..." 

"  But  why  ?  A  make-believe  of  what  ?  "  He  is  struck 
with  the  extremest  perplexity,  and  a  fear  for  his  own 
reason,  too. 

"  You  would  make  me  out  a  fool,  Oliver.  But  you 
speak  so  fair,  and  seem  so  sure,  that  I  half  doubt  you 
believe  your  own  crazy  story." 

"  Oh,  Lucy — I  know  it.  'Tis  more  than  believing. 
How  can  I  think  it  other  than  true  ?  "  Then  he  beseeches 
her  to  hear  him  tell  again  the  whole  tale^^  taking  each  point 
closely  in  its  order.  But  every  detail  brings  with  it  a 
new  discrepancy.  When  Dame  Hatsell  heard  the  horses' 
hoofs  below,  was  it  not  before  she  slept?  When  Mrs. 
Trant  was  called  up  from  her  bed  to  get  a  light,  was  it 
not  after?  The  folly  of  it  all!  How  could  Lucinda  be 
calling  for  a  light,  there  in  the  house,  two  hours  after  she 
had  been  heard  departing?  How  could  the  stable  be 
empty — John  Rackham  roused  from  sleep,  and  two  horses 
saddled,  almost  as  soon  as  Mrs.  Trant  came  downstairs 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIS^OR  363 

with  her  light?  Naj — how  came  her  departure  with  the 
groom  to  be  noiseless?  This  last  puzzle,  strange  to  say, 
strikes  Oliver  more  than  all  the  comparisons  of  time  and 
place.     He  cannot  get  over  it. 

At  last  he  becomes  in  a  sense  frantic,  flinging  prudence 
to  the  winds  and  angrily  pacing  the  room.  ^^  I  tell  you,  I 
tell  you,"  says  he,  again  and  again,  ^^  it  is  impossible  I 
should  be  mistaken !  "  So  convinced  is  she  now  that  he 
has  been  under  an  hallucination  that  she  merely  sits 
silent,  waiting  for  his  violence  to  subside.  She  says 
coldly  at  last :  "  You  had  better  rest,  Oliver.  You  know 
what  Dr.  Phinehas  has  said."  To  which  he  replies :  "  To 
the  Devil  with  the  doctor!  Give  him  his  fee  and  send 
him  packing." 

Presently  he  becomes  quieter,  but  is  still  in  a  ferment 
of  mind,  struggling  for  a  gleam  of  explanation.  He  sits 
down  by  Lucinda,  and  it  is  the  first  time  the  bridegroom 
of  this  strange  wedding  has  been  near  the  bride, 
since  a  purely  formal  salute  after  the  ceremony  in  the 
morning.  He  takes  her  hand  and  closes  his  eyes  as  he 
draws  her  fingers  across  his  lips.  She  has  half  shrunk 
away  from  him;  but  then,  recognising  his  intent,  says, 
"  Oh — that!  "  and  leaves  him  her  hand,  adding,  a  mo- 
ment after,  "  Well  ? "  as  though  asking  for  the  sequel  of 
his  thought.  For  she  sees  that  he  is  once  more  trying  to 
rehearse  that  experience  in  the  dark  at  Kips  Manor. 

"  It  was  your  hand,  Lucy,"  says  he,  ^^  say  what  you 
may !  It  was  your  hand.  I  can  tell  each  ring  as  I  touch 
it.  There  be  the  three  diamonds,  the  emerald,  and  the 
cornelian.  And  as  for  the  ring  that  this  day  has  dubbed 
you  my  Lady  Raydon — 'twas  not  upon  the  hand 
then.   ..." 

She  interrupted  him.    ^^  Now  listen,  Oliver !    This  may 


364  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

convince  you.  When  you  sent  for  tKose  rings  that  I 
should  wear  them  again  at  the  wedding,  did  you  not  say 
to  Vincent  that  they  were  found  by  the  mirror  in  my 
tiring-room.     Now  I  ask  you,  who  took  them  there  ?  " 

Oliver's  face  showed  his  bewilderment.  "  Yourself, 
girl — or  the  Devil,"  said  he.     "  Who  else  could  ?  " 

"  If  they  were  on  my  hand  when  I  came  out  and  went 
upstairs,  no  one  else  could,  sure  enough.  But  when  did  I 
return  to  the  inner  room  ?  Tell  me  that.  Oh,  Oliver,  'tis 
all  a  fantastic  dream  together.'' 

Oliver  assumed  a  cool  tone  of  judgment  due  to  his 
superiority  of  sex.  "  E'ow  look  at  this  possibility,"  said 
he.  "  Suppose  the  rings  had  been  there  all  the  time ! 
How  then  ? " 

"  All  the  time  your  lips  felt  them  on  my  hand  ?  "  says 
she.  Then  Oliver,  having  nothing  else  for  it,  becomes 
impatient  again,  on  a  new  line.  "  That  fiend  Trant  was 
in  it,  with  her  damned  witchcraft."  He  mutters  to  him- 
self, but  she  overhears  him,  and  says,  "At  least,  Trant 
could  tell  us." 

"  If  she  be  not  burned  at  the  stake  for  her  practices, 
or  sent  to  the  bottom  of  a  pond." 

"  Oliver ! — what  have  you  done  with  Trant  ?  " 

"  Done  with  Trant — I  ?  E'othing  at  all,  'pon  my 
honour — ho,  ho!  But  what  the  King's  Justices  at  Bury 
have  done  with  her — ^that's  another  matter.  I  warrant 
she's  got  no  more  than  she  deserves,  anyway !  " 

A  horror  is  creeping  over  Lucinda's  face.  '^  You  may 
as  well  tell  me,"  she  says.  "  What  have  you  done  with 
Susan  Trant  ?  " 

"  Zounds,  girl,  I  did  not  know  she  was  such  a  favourite 
of  thine!  What  would  you  have  had  me  do  with  Susan 
Trant,  but  what  I  have  done  ?  " 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N"0R  365 

"  What  have  you  done  ? " 

"Faith! — nothing  at  all,  myself.  But  I  have  had 
speech  about  her  with  a  worthy  magistrate  at  Bury,  and 
she  will  have  to  appear  at  the  next  Assizes  for  her  pranks. 
They  may  settle  it  off  between  them,  as  best  they  may.  If 
it  goes  ill  with  her,  lay  it  to  John  Rackham's  door.  'Tis 
none  of  my  deposition  that  will  hang  or  burn  her.  John 
Rackham  must  answer  it."  Then  he  told  briefly  how 
he  had  waited  on  the  magistrates  at  Bury,  and  had  laid 
an  information  against  Susan,  but  had  heard  no  further 
thereon,  and  was  little  likely  to  do  so,  seeing  the  dis- 
tance across  country,  and  that  all  letters  must  travel 
first  to  London,  and  indeed  miscarried  more  times  than 
not. 

But  it  stood  thus  with  Lucinda,  that  so  long  as  the 
inward  force  of  her  love  for  this  man,  now  her  husband, 
remained  in  her  system  like  the  virus  of  a  disease,  she 
could  see  no  offence  but  one  of  his  in  a  true  light.  He 
had  slain  her  father,  and  she  made  no  scruple  to  call 
it  murder;  but  for  this  action  against  Mrs.  Trant,  ma- 
lignant as  it  might  be  accounted  by  others,  she  was  ready 
with  justifications  and  excuses.  Consider  this  also:  that 
in  her  day  the  witch  was  held  to  be  truly  in  league  with 
the  Devil,  and  entitled  to  mercy  at  the  hands  of  no  true 
Christian.  So  that  this  action  of  Oliver's  against  Mrs. 
Trant  did  not  present  itself  to  her  mind  as  a  cruel  perse- 
cution, but  as  possibly  even  an  act  of  justice  and  public 
duty.  It  may  be  that  her  love  for  Oliver,  never  extinct, 
welcomed — so  to  speak — an  offence  she  might  forgive 
without  self-reproach.  Yet  not  to  the  extent  of  abating 
the  coldness  of  her  attitude  towards  him,  and  she  re- 
mained impassive  and  silent,  making  little  or  no  answer 
to   his   justifications   of  his   conduct,   which   during  the 


366  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^OE 

remainder  of  that  evening  he  mixed  with  recurrent  at- 
tempts to  grapple  with  the  unsolved  problem  of  her  seem- 
ing presence  at  Kips  Manor,  when,  by  her  own  showing, 
and  his  memory  of  Rackham's  testimony,  she  must  have 
been  well  on  her  way  to  the  London  Road. 

This  perplexity  he  seemed  in  no  mood  to  forget,  re- 
curring to  it  constantly  during  the  next  two  days,  and 
visibly  brooding  over  it;  arriving  at  false  solutions  that 
seemed  at  first  plausible,  then  rejecting  them  as  their 
absurdity  became  manifest,  usually  from  some  shrewd 
question  or  comment  of  Lucinda^s.  She  for  her  part  main- 
tained the  same  cold  demeanour,  just  conceding  to  him 
BO  much  wifely  courtesy — the  only  phrase  possible — as 
would  avert  an  open  rupture  and  hold  out  hope  of  some 
relenting  in  time  to  come. 

This  coldness  ought,  one  might  say,  to  have  gone  far 
to  check  the  healthier  love  that  had  come  lately  into 
Oliver's  heart.  If  it  did,  a  countercheck  was  supplied  by 
piqued  vanity,  that  would  not  accept  a  repulse;  and 
possibly  by  uneasiness  of  conscience,  hankering  unawares 
after  absolution  for  his  past  offences  from  the  only  person 
that  could  give  it.  Lucinda's  love,  revived,  would  wash 
away  the  stains  on  a  soul  that  probably,  but  for  his  own 
newborn  experience  of  love,  would  have  been  little  dis- 
turbed by  the  memory  of  an  opponent  killed  in  a  duel,  or 
some  trifling  expedients  to  hide  a  misdeed  from  his  mis- 
tress and  keep  her  in  the  dark  until  he  should  tire  of  her. 
From  whatever  cause,  he  thought  best  to  show  no  resent- 
ment at  this  coldness,  nor  to  call  in  question  Lucinda's 
behaviour  towards  him ;  a  most  unseemly  one  for  a  bride, 
had  she  been  a  bride  in  the  sense  one  gives  the  word  in 
daily  speech.  But  it  is  a  word  that  rings  false  in  a  case 
like  hers. 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISH0:N^0R  3^7 

The  time  lagged  on  without  any  perceptible  change  in 
this  entirely  strange  relationship,  through  the  first  days 
of  a  most  miserable  honeymoon.  But  were  they  to  last 
to  the  end  of  the  term  that  the  general  consent  of  man- 
kind expects  disillusionment  to  follow? 

Lucinda's  cold  attitude  may  seem  open  to  explanation. 
Oliver^s  acquiescence  in  it  is  harder  to  understand,  but  no 
doubt  his  delicate  condition — for  though  his  wound 
seemed  healed,  his  blood  was  still  at  a  low  ebb — ^made 
him  tractable  from  policy;  and  quite  possibly  his  way  of 
regarding  women  as  weak,  subservient  things  made  for 
man's  pleasure  remained  ingrained  in  his  foul  nature, 
and  he  believed  that  a  complete  surrender  and  return 
to  him  on  the  part  of  this  new  wife  was  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. He  had  only  to  wait,  and  she  would  come  to 
his  arms,  all  contrition,  tears,  and  apologies.  But  he  was 
to  be  roughly  undeceived. 

"  We  have  been  wedded  four  se'nnights.  Mistress 
Lucy,"  said  he  one  day,  yawning  and  stretching  on  a 
couch.  And  then  again,  with  a  slight  varying  of  his 
words :  "  We  have  been  wedded  a  month,  my  Lady 
Raydon." 

She  replied  briefly :  "  Yes,  a  month."  Her  back  was 
turned  to  him  as  she  stood  at  the  window,  looking  out  on  a 
dull  landscape  veiled  in  a  drifting  rain.  So  he  only  half 
heard  the  words  she  added  to  himself ;  "  I  wonder  I  have 
borne  it." 

"  What's  the  wench  a-talking  of  ?  "  He  rose  from  the 
couch  and  shook  himself,  as  one  does  in  protest  against 
the  irksomeness  of  a  time  that  drags.  "  Let's  have  it 
out.  A  good  wife,  thou  knowest,  has  no  secrets  from  her 
husband." 


368  !AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOKOK 

"  I  will  have  no  secrets  from  you,  Oliver.  I  wonder  I 
have  borne  it — ^that  is  what  I  said  but  now.  .  ,  .  My 
meaning? — I  will  tell  it  you.  It  sits  too  heavy  upon  my 
soul  that  I  am  the  wife  of  the  man  by  whose  hand  my 
father  died.  Is  it  strange  to  you  that  I  have  found  it 
hard  to  bear  ?  " 

"  What  the  devil  does  the  woman  mean  ?  " 

"  This  much,  Oliver — for  now  I  must  speak."  And  yet 
her  speech  choked  her,  as  she  struggled  for  a  new  begin- 
ning.    "  Yes,  I  must  speak — I  must  speak.    ..." 

"  I  have  naught  to  say  against  it.  Make  a  clean  breast. 
!Rever  say  I  put  a  gag  on  thy  tongue,  Mistress  Lucy."  He 
threw  himself  back  on  the  couch,  his  hands  behind  his 
head,  his  slightly  raised  eyebrows  and  mouth  pursed  to  a 
whistle  made  for  cynical  carelessness,  half -indulgent  to  the 
mad  whim  of  a  woman;  but  he  did  not  meet  her  eyes, 
now  turned  full  upon  him. 

"  I  shall  have  to  say  it  sooner  or  later.  .  .  .  We  must 
part." 

Oliver  started  up,  all  his  nonchalance  dispersed  or  dis- 
persing. ^"^  We  must  part ! — we  must  part ! — we  must 
part !  "  he  repeated.  ^'  Why — we  are  but  just  wed !  Was 
ever  such  a  crazy  Jane-o'-Bedlam !  We  must  part,  for- 
sooth !  "  And  then  he  wanted  to  make  a  blustering  laugh 
of  it,  but  it  fell  through. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why,  or  will  try  to.  I  am  grateful  to 
you,  Oliver,  for  making  me  your  wife.  But  it  is  not  for 
my  own  sake  that  the  bearing  of  your  name  is  welcome  to 
me.  Listen!  There  are  children  of  yours  in  the  world 
who  can  never  bear  their  father^s  name  honestly,  as  the 
world  counts  honesty.  My  duty  was  to  our  child,  and  I 
have  done  it." 

Oliver,  conceiving  that  she  referred  to  some  vague,  un- 


AN  AFPAIK  OF  DISHO:tTOE  369 

certain  future,  some  inheritance  none  could  predict,  took 
her  words  quite  wide  of  their  meaning.  "  Is  it  not,"  said 
he,  ''a  woman's  first  duty  to  her  child  to  give  it  a  chance 
of  life  ?  If  we  part,  it  seems  to  me  the  brat's  chance  goes 
for  good.   ..." 

"  You  do  not  understand  me,"  she  said.  And  there  was 
that  in  her  voice  that  made  him  ^x  his  eyes  on  her,  and 
cry  out :  "  What  ? — what  do  you  mean  ?  What  do  I  not 
understand  ?  "  To  which  she  replied,  without  change  of 
voice  or  manner :  "  You  will  understand  me  if  you  think  a 
moment.  .  .  .  You  understand  me  now  ?  " — less  as  a 
question  than  as  a  confidently  spoken  fact. 

Then  he  burst  out :  "  Then  why — why — oh,  why  have 
you  never  said  so  before  ? "  He  started  up,  pacing  ex- 
citedly about  the  room,  exclaiming  vehemently :  "  God's 
my  life,  girl !— could  you  not  trust  me  ?  What  the  devil ! 
— a  dupe — a  dupe !  You  have  made  me  your  dupe !  .  .  . 
Yes ! — I  tell  you — ^you  might  have  told  me.  .  .  .  Why 
was  I  to  be  kept  in  the  dark  ?  " 

Lucinda  only  said  coldly,  "  You  have  given  me  such 
good  reason  for  trusting  you,  Oliver !  " — and  then  waited 
for  his  vehemence  to  subside.  It  would  have  been  hard  to 
say,  as  she  sat  there  motionless  and  silent,  whether  despair 
or  determination  were  written  plainest  on  her  face. 

Presently  Sir  Oliver's  petulance,  crude  and  ill- 
restrained  as  a  boy's,  died  away  as  a  boy's  dies,  and  he 
said  with  a  quieter  self-command :  "  I  have  done  ill  by 
thee,  Lucy  Mauleverer  " — oddly  calling  by  her  old  name 
— "  but  you  might  have  had  that  much  faith  in  me.  Tell 
me,  was  it  not  something  of  amends  that  my  first  thought 
when  I  had  news  of  my  luck  was  to  give  you  the  benefit  of 
it?  I  tell  thee  this,  girl:  there  is  never  another  I  have 
seen  yet  I  would  have  done  so  much  for.     And  here  ends 


370  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE 

a  month  of  mere  sulking  over  a  thing  past  recall !  Was 
ever  such  a  bridal  ?  And  have  I  taken  it  amiss  ?  Come, 
Lucy,  do  me  justice." 

"  I  am  not  ungrateful,  Oliver.  For  all  the  wrong  you 
have  done  me,  you  made  amends  a  month  since.  And  was 
not  the  sin  mine,  as  well  as  yours  ?  Was  not  the  slur  on 
our  good  name — mine,  my  brother's,  my  father's — ^^vas  it 
not  rather  of  my  casting  than  yours  ?  That  might  be  for- 
gotten ;  and  all  that  angered  me  to  the  heart — that  day  in 
the  garden — ^might  pass  and  be  forgotten  too,  for  all  the 
resentment  I  should  ever  cherish  of  it.  And  we  might  live 
on  in  happiness  together,  till  gossip  itself  had  forgot  the 
tale;  and  see  our  children  grow  up  about  us,  never  know- 
ing aught  of  it.  Ay,  and  their  children  after  them !  But 
it  cannot  be." 

"  I  am  a  poor  hand  at  guessing  enigmas,"  says  Oliver, 
with  a  recrudescence  of  the  supercilious  tone,  mixed  with 
one  of  impatience,  that  had  given  place  for  a  moment  to 
concession  and  conciliation.  ^^  I  always  give  them  up.  I 
shall  have  to  ask  you  to  tell  the  answer,  good  Lucy."  The 
half-sneer  his  words  conveyed  was  a  healthy  stimulant  to 
Lucinda.  She  can  say  what  she  has  to  say  more  easily  to 
Oliver  scornful  and  obdurate  than  to  Oliver  submissive 
and  yielding. 

Whatever  she  thinks  of  his  way  of  speech,  she  passes  it 
by,  going  direct  to  the  point.  "I  can  live  with  you  no 
longer,  Oliver.  If  I  do,  I  shall  go  mad.  My  father's  face 
is  before  me  every  hour  of  the  day,  reproaching  me  with 
my  sin,  reproaching  me  with  my  wifehood,  reproaching 
me  with  his  death.  And  so  long  as  I  am  here  I  must 
touch  the  hand  that  slew  him.  And  I  cannot  hate  it,  for 
it  is  yours.  .  .  .  Yes — you  may  think  it  strange,  Oli- 
ver, but  so  it  is,  and  I  tell  you  truth.    Life  would  not  be 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^OK  371 

to  me  the  torment  that  it  has  come  to  be,  if  I  could  hate 
you.  Many  a  wife  hates  her  husband,  yet  the  yoke  lies 
light.  Life  has  to  be  lived,  and  a  way  to  live  it  is  found, 
be  it  welcome  or  no!  But  to  have  to  love  perforce  what 
my  whole  soul  cries  out  upon  me  for  not  hating!  .  .  . 
Oh,  Oliver,  it  will  drive  me  mad — ^mad — ^mad!  I  can- 
not bear  it.     I  cannot — I  cannot!    Let  me  go.'' 

"  Sleep  upon  it,  wench,''  says  Oliver,  nursing  his  dis- 
belief in  the  reality  of  all  this.  A  mere  hysterical 
outbreak,  that  will  die!  So  runs  his  thought;  but 
he  can  afford  to  be  magnanimous  too,  to  reason  with 
this  crazy  wife  his  Quixotism  has  shown  such  indul- 
gence to.  "  Come,  come,  Lucy  mine,"  says  he,  "  is  it 
well  to  be  raking  up  old  scores  now?  One  thing  I  see 
though.    ..." 

"What  is  that,  Oliver?" 

"I  see  that  the  sooner  we  are  off  to  Croxley  Thorpe  the 
better.  'Tis  this  place  does  it.  Thy  father's  face  is  in 
every  corner  of  the  Old  Hall;  little  wonder  that  you 
should  see  it  in  and  out  of  season.  Come  away,  and  send 
the  blue  devils  packing.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  ac- 
cursed dig  in  the  paunch  my  own  sword  must  needs  give 
me,  we  might  have  ended  our  wedding-day  with  a  ride 
home.  .  .  .  But  who's  to  say  that  I  should  ever  have 
sought  to  marry  thee  in  that  case  ?  'Tis  all  the  other  way, 
to  my  thinking.  Had  I  never  been  lugged  here  on  that 
litter,  but  ridden  back  safe  and  sound  to  Croxley,  I  should 
have  been  much  more  like  to  forget  sundry  promises  I 
may  have  made — though  for  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  say 
when — and  all  the  more  for  that  box  o'  the  ear  you  gave 
me  in  the  garden !  But  there  you  were  in  the  house  and 
about  it;  and,  though  you  kept  out  of  my  sight,  I  had 
the  tokens  of  you,  and  knew  you  were  to  hand.   .    .    . . 


372  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

How? — bj  the  sound  of  your  voice — by  the  clavichord; 
none  too  easy  to  hear  thus  far  off,  but  good  to  tell  the 
tune.  So,  when  I  got  the  news  of  that  bit  of  luck  of 
mine,  I  was  in  good  trim  for  thought  of  thy  claims,  Lucy, 
whatever  they  were.  No — no!  Saddle  up  and  let's  be 
gone — that's  the  word  now!  To-morrow  morning,  if  the 
weather  mends — time  enough  for  a  noonday  meal." 

Then  her  care  for  Oliver  himself — that  was  only  in 
abeyance,  never  dead — outwent  all  else  in  Lucinda's  mind. 
^'  You  are  mad  yourself,  Oliver,"  said  she,  ^'  to  think  of 
such  a  thing.  Remember  what  Dr.  Phinehas  said! — 
*  Walking  fast  would  be  danger ;  riding,  certain 
death'   ..." 

"  Dr.  Phinehas  may  go  to  the  Devil !  " 

"  You  say  so,  Oliver,  but  which  is  more  like  to  be 
right,  you  or  he?  Think  what  a  many  wounded  he  has 
tended  in  all  his  years  of  service  with  the  army."  Then 
she  dwelt  on  the  old  man's  long  experience — he  was  close 
on  eighty,  and  could  actually  remember  the  coming  of 
the  great  Spanish  Armada  and  its  defeat — and  the 
earnestness  of  his  advice  to  Oliver  not  to  grudge  time 
for  a  full  recovery.  She  ended :  "  See  what  he  said,  too, 
and  I  am  sure  he  is  right ;  ^  A  green  wound  is  green  till 
it  is  healed.'" 

"  And  who  is  to  settle  whether  it  be  healed  or  no, 
except  the  patient  himself?  Has  the  old  fool  been  down 
my  throat  to  see  ?  Shall  I  never  back  a  horse  again,  for 
fear  of  an  old  quack's  word  ?  And  look  you ! — every  day 
sooner  I  throw  him  and.  his  visits  overboard  is  a  guinea  the 
less  in  his  pocket,  and  one  more  kept  in  mine.  No,  no ;  I 
may  wait  a  long  time  before  the  old  chucklehead  says  the 
word  that  will  stop  his  salary.  We'll  ride  to-morrow,  and 
there  will  be  an  end  of  thy  phantasies,  silly  woman !  .   .   . 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  373 

What — leave  your  husband  before  the  ink's  dry  on  the 
register !  What  says  divorce  a  vinculo  to  that  ?  "  He  ran 
on  thus,  the  outcome  of  it  all  being  that  if  Lucinda  for- 
sook him,  the  legitimacy  of  the  child  would  be  impaired  or 
annulled  outright.  Whether  this  was  true  or  not,  how 
could  Lucinda  say?  All  her  experience  of  life  did  not 
mount  up  to  much,  all  told.  And  how  could  she  face 
down  the  word  of  an  experienced  man  ?  The  habit  of 
thought  that  assigns  knowledge  to  male  man  as  his  in- 
heritance governed  her  woman's  mind,  and  silenced  it. 
If  her  parting  now  from  Oliver — supposing  she  could 
achieve  it — was  to  endanger  the  object  she  had  in  view 
in  marrying  him,  what  had  she  gained  by  her  marriage? 
Besides,  it  was  certainly  true  that  Dr.  Phinehas  was  very 
fond  of  money.  Was  it  not  possible  Oliver  was  right 
about  the  old  man's  motives  for  retaining  him  so  long 
in  hospital  ? 

So  Lucinda,  after  wavering  awhile,  consented  to  ride 
next  day  with  her  husband  to  Croxley,  without  admitting 
to  herself  any  change  in  her  final  purpose.  She  was  suf- 
fering from  a  torment  of  conscience  at  war  with  inclina- 
tion, for  her  mere  human  impulse  was  towards  Oliver. 
And  this  was  strengthened  by  his  evident  determination 
to  keep  her,  even  while  she  revolted  against  his  assump- 
tion of  power.  He  loved  her  still,  somehow;  and  how 
much  that  meant!  She  might  have  suspected  her  own 
heart,  from  the  readiness  with  which  she  accepted  his 
suggestion  that  her  child's  legitimacy  would  be  flawed  by 
her  leaving  him  while  it  was  all  such  guesswork  about 
its  birth.  Anyhow,  her  final  conclusion  was  compliance 
with  his  wishes,  until  she  could  lighten  the  burden  of  her 
father's  death  by  leaving  him,  without  fear  for  the  future 
of  a  babe  unborn. 


374  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOjSrOR 

She  might  have  suspected,  too,  that  she  had  softened 
towards  Oliver  from  her  growing  tendency  to  dwell  more 
and  more  on  her  own  sin  as  the  real  underlying  cause  of 
her  father's  death.  How  weak  and  wicked  she  had 
been! — her  only  poor  excuse  being  that  she  had  never 
more  than  half-grasped  the  nature  of  her  own  actions. 

No — she  would  bear  this  life  a  little  yet  to  make  a  foot- 
hold in  the  world  for  that  baby.  Her  decision  was  helped 
by  a  thought  she  never  dared  to  think  out :  "  Had  my 
father  slain  my  lover,  could  I  have  lived  with  him  after  ? '' 
And  though  she  varied  the  question  "  Could  I  not  ? '' 
she  had  no  heart  to  answer  "  Yes." 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

Had  John  Rackham  been  in  favour  with  Sir  Oliver, 
no  doubt  he  would  have  been  sent  for  to  the  Old  Hall  to 
be  in  close  attendance  on  him,  as  we  have  seen  him  be- 
fore. But  his  revelation  of  the  story  of  the  duel,  whether 
through  witchcraft  or  otherwise,  had  thrown  him  into 
such  disgrace  with  his  master,  that  when  Vincent,  acting 
on  his  sister's  suggestion,  proposed  that  he  should  be  sum- 
moned from  Croxlej,  Sir  Oliver  declined  the  offer,  not 
overcourteously.  ^^  What  the  devil  should  the  knave  come 
here  for  ?  "  said  he.  So  Rackham  remained  at  Croxley, 
riding  over  once  to  inquire  concerning  his  master's  prog- 
ress; and  once,  on  the  occasion  of  the  wedding,  when  the 
recognition  of  his  appearance  was  too  scant  to  encourage 
him  to  do  the  same  thing  again.  Not  only  was  this  so, 
but,  to  add  to  his  grievance,  the  young  groom  was  sent  for 
in  his  stead,  leaving  him  sole  tenant  of  the  stable  quarter 
at  Croxley  Hall. 

As  at  Kips  Manor,  Rackham  spent  almost  the  whole  of 
his  life  in  the  stable-yard  by  day,  and  at  night  locked 
himself  into  his  own  den,  leaving  a  dog  or  two  unchained 
to  give  a  first  reception  to  intruders.  He  seldom  did  this 
until  after  the  household  were  asleep,  or  well  on  their  way 
to  sleep.  Now  and  again  it  would  be  long  past  midnight 
before  he  thought  fit  to  retire.  It  was  so  on  the  last  night 
but  two  before  Oliver's  return  to  Croxley,  with  his  new- 
made  wife. 

He  had  spent  an  unusual  time  in  the  composition  of  a 

875 


376  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHON'OK 

ball  for  one  of  his  horses,  and  that  had  thrown  all  his 
work  behindhand.  It  was  the  young  colt  that  had  carried 
Lucinda  so  well  on  her  bad  journey  from  Kips  Manor; 
that,  giving  out  in  the  end,  had  been  left  with  the  host  of 
the  Three  Sheaves,  about  four  miles  off,  and  sent  on  by 
him,  as  instructed  by  Lucinda,  to  the  l^ew  Hall  next  day. 
On  this  evening  it  had  begun  showing  inexplicable  symp- 
toms, shivering  and  starting,  and  leaving  the  oats  in  its 
manger  untouched.  Its  breath  came  short,  too,  and  was 
hot,  and  altogether  its  condition  puzzled  the  groom,  who 
thereon  resorted  to  a  special  time-honoured  concoction, 
known  only  to  himself  and  his  father  before  him,  but  re- 
quiring great  care  in  the  mixing  and  composition  of  the 
ingredients.  Had  the  horse  not  been  in  its  own  stable,  at 
the  New  Hall,  he  might  have  thought  it  bewitched,  as 
before;  but  Eackham  could  not  conceive  of  any  witch  so 
bold  as  to  molest  a  horse  in  such  a  sacred  surrounding.  It 
would  be  all  right  after  it  had  swallowed  his  panacea. 
But  he  could  not  expect  any  effect  for  a  few  hours  yet. 
So  he  went  to  bed. 

The  rain  had  lulled  an  hour  since,  but  there  was  more 
in  the  sky  to  come  down;  so  he  had  said  as  he  locked  the 
stable-door.  A  moon  near  the  full,  rim-blurred  through 
the  mist,  and  halo-circled,  made  the  same  prediction. 
But  its  fulfilment  was  delayed;  for  the  mist  grew  less, 
and  the  moon  brighter,  and  Eackham  could  see  by  its 
light  a  woman's  figure  near  the  turn  in  the  road,  a  hun- 
dred yards  away.  An  unusual  sight,  long  after  midnight ! 
So  unusual,  that  a  superstitious  man,  not  more  than  half 
awake,  would  have  thought  it  a  ghost,  past  doubt.  The 
groom  was  neither,  so  he  rolled  himself  up  to  sleep 
unconcerned.  She  was  no  affair  of  his,  whoever  she 
was. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOXOK  377 

The  dogs  broke  out  in  a  chorus  directly  after.  Well ! — 
they  would  do  that  till  the  wanderer  had  passed  the  house. 
Kackham  remained  unconcerned,  and  continued  the  ar- 
rangement of  his  attitude.     It  was  to  outlast  daybreak. 

But  the  dog-chorus  did  not  die  down  as  he  expected, 
and  he  had  cursed  the  beasts  twice  or  three  times  for  an 
excess  of  duty,  when  an  unwelcome  sound  broke  through 
his  reluctance  to  move — the  jangle  of  the  gate-bell,  loud 
and  sudden  in  the  silence.  It  left  him  no  choice  but  to 
get  up  and  look  from  the  door  in  the  gable  of  the  adjoin- 
ing loft,  that  opened  on  space,  and  showed  to  him  who 
cared  to  risk  a  fall  out,  a  partial  view  of  one  outside  the 
gate.  This  one  was  a  woman,  Rackham  thought;  obvi- 
ously the  one  he  had  just  seen  along  the  road. 

'^  Be  off !  '^  shouted  he  to  the  disturber.  He  was  so 
utterly  convinced  that  she  could  not  be  any  concern  of  his 
or  anyone  in  the  house — probably  a  wandering  lunatic — 
that  he  had  no  scruple  about  his  form  of  speech,  so  far. 
But  he  softened  it  down,  adding,  "  Who  be  you  ?  ISTo 
good,  I  warrant ! '' — the  last  to  himself  partly. 

"  Come  down,  Master  Eackham,"  answered  a  voice  he 
knew.  He  was  half-prepared  for  the  name  that  followed, 
spoken  as  though  the  speaker  took  recognition  for  granted : 
"  Susan  Trant." 

His  anticipation  of  it  was  not  so  clear,  though,  as  to 
intercept  a  long,  low  whistle,  and  "  My  word !  "  But  he 
would  go  to  the  gate;  that  he  settled  on  promptly. 
One  or  two  garments  had  to  be  supplied  or  adjusted. 
So  he  said,  "  Bide  tiU  I  come,"  and  went  back  to  his 
kennel  for  the  purpose. 

The  story  tried  to  hint,  some  while  since,  that  Rack- 
ham's  sentiments  towards  Mrs.  Trant  were  not  unmixed 
with  a  certain  vulgar  appreciation.    This  had  been  marred 


378  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIsTOE 

or  thwarted  for  a  time  by  his  resentment  against  the 
thraldom  he  had  endured  at  her  hands.  But  this  resent- 
ment had  abated  after  he  had  helped  to  hand  her  over 
to  the  rack  or  the  stake.  He  was  even  with  her;  so  his 
mind  phrased  it.  At  any  rate,  it  had  now  become  easier 
to  forgive  her,  and  to  go  back  to  an  estimation  of  her 
personal  charms  akin  to  his  recognition  of  the  points  of 
a  fine  mare.  So  that  as  he  found  his  way  down  the  ladder 
that  led  from  his  dormitory,  he  was  nursing  an  image  in 
his  mind,  mainly  founded  on  that  of  Mistress  Trant  when 
she  spoke  to  him  through  the  window  of  Kips  Manor, 
while  she  was  still  beguiling  him  into  her  spider ^s  web. 
This  image  was  a  tempting  one,  and  his  anticipation  as 
he  threw  the  gate  open  was  very  different  from  its 
fulfilment. 

Haggard,  stooping,  soiled,  and  splashed  with  dirt  from 
head  to  foot,  limping  as  she  walked,  and  seeming  like  to 
fall,  with  some  indistinct  damage  on  her  face  that  Rack- 
ham  could  not  define  in  the  dim  light,  the  woman  that  met 
his  eyes  was  a  greater  contrast  to  the  image  he  expected 
than  his  slow  mind  could  assimilate.  "  You  lie,  who- 
ever you  be,  mistress !  "  said  he.  "  YouVe  gotten  the 
voice  of  her,  too,''  he  added.  "  Come  you  in."  But 
he  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  this  was  truly  Susan 
Trant. 

Whoever  she  was  she  staggered  in  across  the  yard. 
There  was  a  truss  of  fresh  hay  and  some  sacks  against  the 
stable-door,  and  on  these  she  sank  down,  leaning  against 
the  wall.  It  was  plain  she  was  faint  to  death ;  worn  out, 
one  would  have  said,  with  fatigue,  hunger,  rough  usage, 
what  not!  She  showed  no  apprehension  of  harm  from 
the  dogs,  though  their  excitement  seemed  quite  unusual. 
Kackham  drove  or  kicked  the  free  ones  back  into  their 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N'0R  379 

kennels,  and  chained  them.  Then  he  returned  to  the 
woman. 

She  tried  for  speech,  saying — so  thought  her  hearer — 
"  They  went  nigh  to  killing  me.  Master  Rackham."  But 
he  could  not  have  sworn  to  the  words. 

He  was  at  a  loss,  but  could  take  his  own  time  to  work 
it  out.  Presently  he  bethought  himself  of  a  bottle  of 
true  Irish  usquebaugh,  treasured  for  gradual  consumption. 
He  could  spare  a  mouthful,  at  a  pinch.  Apart  from  all 
other  considerations,  he  did  not  want  this  woman  to  die 
on  his  hands. 

The  usquebaugh  was  effectual,  and  she  spoke,  saying: 
^'  I  have  scarce  tasted  food  this  day."  Rackham  brought 
her  whatever  scraps  he  could  lay  hands  on,  rough  fare 
enough,  but  she  devoured  it  as  one  famished.  Then  she 
got  speech,  and  began  to  tell  him  how  she  had  come  afoot 
all  the  way  from  Bury,  walking  for  eight  whole  days, 
having  escaped  from  persecutors;  and  other  matters  more 
or  less  confused,  of  which  even  had  he  been  a  shrewder 
hearer,  he  could  have  made  but  little.  Sleep  was  coming 
on  her  apace;  seeing  which,  and  being  well-disposed  to- 
wards sleep  himself,  Mr.  Rackham  cast  about  to  extem- 
porise a  rough  bed  in  an  empty  stall  of  the  stable,  of  fresh 
hay  and  a  sack  of  oats  for  a  pillow.  "  Lie  thee  down 
and  snore,  mistress,"  said  he,  throwing  her  a  horse-cloth 
for  counterpane,  and  then  found  his  way  up  his  ladder 
and  slept  himself. 

When  he  awoke,  well  on  into  daylight,  he  was  half 
inclined  to  believe  he  had  dreamt  it  all.  But  then,  there 
was  the  woman,  who  he  could  now  see  was  Susan  Trant, 
as  he  looked  out  over  the  stable-yard  and  saw  her,  afoot 
before  himself,  moving  with  a  limp,  and  seeming  to  peer 
about,  to  catch  a  sight  of  the  house,  of  which  the  main 


380  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOE^OR 

portion  was  not  fully  visible  from  the  stables,  which  were 
under  the  side  wall. 

"  I  see  it  be  you,  now,  mistress,  pretty  plain,"  said  he, 
when  he  got  within  word-distance  of  her.  "  But  someone 
has  made  free  with  your  nose,  or  my  eyesight^s  tripping 
me  up."  For  he  saw  now  what  it  was  that  had  struck 
him  as  strange  about  her  face  in  the  half-dark.  The  nose 
had  been  badly  cut,  and  the  wound  had  healed  ill,  and 
meant  to  leave  a  bad  scar. 

The  woman's  answer  seemed  to  take  its  hearer's  under- 
standing of  the  case  for  granted.  "  A  good  housewife 
helped  me  after  I  got  away  from  them,"  said  she.  "  She 
strapped  the  cut  with  a  plaster.  I  took  it  off  but  yes- 
terday. 'Tis  a  wonder  to  me  it  should  have  healed  at 
all.  .  .  .  Yes — Master  Rackham,  I  am  hungry  and 
sore,  and  a  good  breakfast  would  be  a  glad  sight." 

The  groom  asked  no  more  questions  then,  having  a 
slow  instinct  that  he  would  hear  the  tale  better  later. 
He  went  away  to  provide  the  breakfast,  and  how  he  con- 
trived to  get  it  is  not  clear.  But  this  was  not  the  first 
time  he  had  applied  to  the  housekeeper  to  provide  for 
an  unexpected  inmate;  and  if  any  of  the  household  had 
seen  that  this  inmate  was  a  woman,  it  would  only  have 
led  to  a  discreet  avoidance  of  the  stables ;  such  discretion 
having  been  an  understood  practice  in  Sir  Oliver's  time 
at  the  New  Hall.  However,  of  course,  it  is  possible  that 
the  rough  plenty  of  the  great  house  could  ignore  so  small 
an  additional  demand  as  two  or  three  new-laid  eggs  and 
an  extra  rasher  or  two  of  bacon.  As  for  small  beer,  which 
was  the  early  morning  drink  of  that  time,  none  ever 
counted  its  quantity  or  cost.  All  this  was  well  for  Susan 
Trant,  who  in  an  hour's  time  was  able  to  make  her  story 
clear^  and  account  for  her  unexpected  appearance. 


AN^  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  381 

The  substance  of  it  is  all  that  is  needed  here,  the  actual 
telling  being  often  broken,  and  interspersed  with  ex- 
planations. She  had  been  haled  before  the  Justices  at 
Burj,  on  the  information,  as  she  had  since  learned, 
of  Sir  Oliver  Raydon,  and  of  John  Rackham  himself, 
whose  share  in  the  matter  she  seemed  to  slur  over,  with 
a  kind  of  suggestion  that  he  had  acted  under  orders, 
and  was  the  merest  subordinate.  ^^  It  was  not  my  desert 
at  your  hands,  Master  Rackham,"  said  she.  ^'  But  your 
word  was  at  the  bidding  of  another,  and  well  do  I  know 
where  the  blame  lies."  At  her  first  examination  she  had 
given  herself  up  for  lost,  seeing  her  guilt  was  taken  for 
granted  except  she  could  prove  her  innocence;  as  was 
common  in  witch-trials,  the  offenders  being  almost  always 
women,  and  not  entitled  to  the  benefit  of  a  nicety  of 
Law  that  holds  men  innocent  until  they  can  be  proved 
guilty.  Rut  during  her  detention  in  the  common  gaol — 
for,  of  course,  if  any  bail  had  been  forthcoming  it  would 
have  been  refused — she  turned  over  in  her  mind,  as  one 
desperate  might  do,  all  manner  of  devices  to  escape 
the  penalties  she  knew  awaited  her.  For,  except  she  could 
find  a  better,  her  only  chance  would  be  that  she  should 
remain  alive  under  water;  seeing  that  if  she  floated  on 
the  surface,  she  would  afterwards  be  burnt  at  the  stake, 
as  hundreds  had  been  before  her.  The  end  of  which 
cogitation  was,  that  at  her  second  examination  this 
Susan,  being  called  on  to  confess,  did  so  with  much  show 
of  contrition,  giving  many  and  amazing  details  of  her 
temptation  by  the  Evil  One,  in  the  form  of  a  little  man 
with  crop-ears,  and  a  sweet  voice,  and  how  he  had  pre- 
vailed upon  her  to  let  him  suck  her  blood,  though  but  a 
little  quantity,  in  exchange  for  an  owtch  of  black  jet, 
that  is  to  say,   a  trinket,  which  had  great  and  magic 


382  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R 

virtues,  and  would  give  her  power  over  all  who  should 
handle  it.  Whereat  the  Judge  having  inquired  of  her 
was  this  the  toy  wherewith  she  had  so  besotted  Mr. 
John  Rackham,  in  the  service  of  the  worshipful  Sir  Oliver 
Raydon,  she  had  replied  "  Yes,"  and  that  she  had  it  upon 
her  now,  and  his  lordship  might  handle  it,  and  see  his 
face  in  it  if  he  cared  to  look.  But  whether  its  old  virtue 
were  in  it  still,  that  she  could  not  say,  seeing  that  very 
like  the  little  man  with  the  crop-ears  might  be  angered 
against  her  now  she  had  betrayed  him. 

His  lordship,  however,  would  have  none  of  it  himself, 
but  ordered  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  to  examine  it,  and  take 
charge  of  it  as  a  necessary  evidence;  who,  being  in  great 
terror  to  touch  it — for  had  it  not  been  handled  by  the 
Evil  One  himself? — was  fain  to  protest  against  being 
compelled  to  do  so,  having  a  family  of  twelve  children, 
and  a  third  wife  expecting  in  November.  So  he  made 
this  petition  to  the  Court,  that  before  he  was  compelled 
to  take  this  Satan's  trinket  in  his  charge,  it  should  be 
handled  by  the  Very  Reverend  the  Dean  of  St.  Mary's, 
who  was  then  present,  by  virtue  of  whose  holy  office  the 
evil  spirit  would  surely  make  but  a  short  stay  therein, 
leaving  it  innocuous  to  a  mere  layman  like  himself. 
Which  being  granted,  and  the  Reverend  Dean  having 
discerned  in  the  locket  no  more  than  any  other  female 
gaud  or  fairing,  only  that  it  showed  his  face  amiss  for  all 
it  was  so  polished,  the  learned  Judge  was  of  a  mind  to 
examine  it  himself,  and  did  so.  Thereon  each  man  then 
in  Court — and  many  were  folk  of  weight  and  condition — 
would  take  his  turn  to  look  into  this  piece  of  polished 
jet,  and  each  in  turn  said  what  the  Reverend  Dean  had 
said,  that  the  reflection  mirrored  in  it  showed  his  face 
askew,   however  clear  it  made  his   features.     And  one 


AIsT  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIS^OK  S83 

made  a  deft  turn  with  his  finger,  to  show  the  manner  of 
this  twist.  Then  says  Mistress  Susan,  with  due  apology 
and  humble  reverence  to  the  worshipful  Court  and  the 
Very  Reverend  Dean,  that  so  had  John  Eackham  said, 
and  she  rejoiced  thereat,  for  surely  now  he  would 
die  too,  if  she  should  be  sent  to  the  scaffold  or  the 
stake. 

On  hearing  this  strange  speech,  the  learned  Judge 
directed  that  it  should  be  entered  on  the  minutes,  and 
further  required  the  accused  to  explain  her  meaning,  and 
not  dally  with  the  patience  of  the  Court.  For  if  she  did 
so,  she  should  surely  be  rackt,  or  at  the  least  well  pricked 
with  pins  for  to  bring  her  to  some  reason. 

But  Susan  was  ready  with  her  explanation,  saying  that 
now  she  would  withhold  nothing,  to  show  her  true  re- 
pentance. And  her  meaning  was  easy  to  tell,  being 
simply  that  there  was  a  virtue  of  prediction  in  this  in- 
significant piece  of  polished  jet,  whereby  it  should  be 
known  whether  its  owner,  or  any  chance  person  who 
looked  at  his  image  therein,  should  live  the  longer.  But, 
said  his  lordship  the  Judge,  by  what  token  should  this 
be  known?  How  could  she  know  that  Mr.  Rackham's 
decease  would  follow  on  her  execution,  which  she  heartily 
deserved,  if  only  for  her  unchristian  rejoicing  over  the 
death  of  an  unoffending  man,  who  had  told  no  more  than 
the  truth,  by  her  own  showing.  Thereupon  Susan  shed 
tears,  saying  his  lordship  had  most  clearly  the  right  of  it, 
and  taking  great  blame  to  herself  that  she  had  so  spoken 
in  haste.  For  it  was  her  Christian  wish  to  die  at  peace 
with  all  men,  and  make  amends  for  her  many  yieldings 
to  the  instigation  of  this  cunning  Satan.  She  ought 
rather  to  pray  that  John  Rackham  might  live,  but  in 
truth  she  feared  that  nothing  could   altogether  remove 


384  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR 

the  inward  powers  of  the  stone,  not  even  the  touch  of  the 
most  worshipful  and  reverend  Dean.  She  only  spoke 
what  she  understood  the  little  crop-eared  man  to  say — 
that  he  who  saw  his  face  atwist  to  the  left  would  die  of 
a  certainty,  within  but  a  few  days  of  herself.  But  he 
■  whose  face  was  set  askew  to  the  right  might  enjoy  long 
life,  whether  she  should  die  or  live. 

Then  the  Reverend  Dean  and  my  lord  the  Judge  both 
went  very  pale,  and  spoke  uneasily.  And  others  in  the 
Court  who  had  looked  in  this  piece  of  jet  would  look  in 
it  again,  though  each  accounted  the  woman  but  a  liar, 
seeking  to  frighten  them.  The  end  of  it  was,  after  much 
discussion,  in  which  the  Reverend  Dean  used  all  his  pow- 
ers of  persuasion  with  the  Court  to  get  this  witch  let  off 
scot-free,  in  view  of  her  evident  repentance  and  turning 
from  the  paths  of  Satan,  that  Mrs.  Trant  was  liberated, 
undertaking  with  many  tears  and  much  show  of  contri- 
tion, to  lead  a  godly  life  and  shun  the  Black  Art,  and  all 
the  wiles  of  the  Evil  One. 

At  this  point  Rackham  interrupted  the  story,  which 
had  taken  time  in  the  telling,  to  say :  ^^  But  this  was  all 
a  damned  lie,  I'll  pound  it.  Mistress  Susan." 

To  which  Susan  answered :  "  'Twas  a  lie,  as  you  say. 
But  it  did  me  a  good  turn,  though  it  would  have  been  a 
better  one  had  they  opened  their  doors  to  me  when  all  the 
neighbours  were  abed.  For  the  town  was  against  me, 
and  I  tell  you  this  for  a  truth,  Master  Rackham,  that 
when  I  came  forth  of  the  gaol-door  that  opens  on  the 
market,  there  by  the  cross  in  the  middle  was  a  crowd  of 
folk  a-listening  to  a  godly  minister  of  religion,  who  was 
preaching  a  discourse  touching  the  commandment  of  our 
Lord,  ^  Thou  shalt  not  suffer  a  witch  to  live.'  And  no 
sooner  had  they  sight  of  me — just  a  poor  woman,  all 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOiS^OR  385 

alone,  for  none  of  mj  kith  had  the  courage  to  stand  by; 
me   ..." 

"Yoiir  good  man,  mistress,"  Rackham  interposed, 
^'  seems  to  have  played  mighty  small  in  the  matter. 
Stopped  at  home,  I  lay." 

Susan  broke  into  a  bitter  laugh.  "  He  might  have 
done  so.  Master  Rackham,  for  all  the  good  he  ever  did 
me!  Why — ^when  he  was  asked  a  question,  what  does 
he  answer?  Says  he  believes  he  wedded  me  through 
some  witch-poison  I  put  in  his  drink.  The  liar! — ^he 
wedded  me  for  two  hundred  pounds  out  of  the  pocket  of 
the  Squire's  mother,  she  that  gave  me  this  cloak  I  carry 
now — 'tis  a  marvel  for  wear,  for  'tis  none  so  bad  to  look 
on  even  now,  after  eighteen  years  gone.    ..." 

But  Rackham's  wits  could  not  follow  digressions. 
"  You  see  'em  a-coming,  mistress,"  said  he.  ^'  I  under- 
stood you  to  say  so,  by  your  words." 

"  Yes — I  saw  them  coming,  all  shouting  to  kill  the 
witch — kill  the  witch!  It  was  the  worst  bout  of  it  all. 
They  were  just  so  many  devils  broke  loose.  I  can  only 
half-say  what  happened.  I  heard  one  shout,  ^  Slit  her 
nose  o'  both  sides ! '  but  I  could  not  have  sworn  to  the 
doing  of  it,  for  the  life  of  me.  Who's  to  say  what  comes 
about  when  she  can  see  no  way  out  of  Hell,  look  where 
she  may?  All  the  thought  I  could  have  was  for  what 
might  come  next.    ..." 

"  And  what  come  next  ?  "  said  Rackham.  For  the 
speaker  had  paused,  with  the  horror  of  the  memory  upon 
her  face,  as  though  the  telling  of  it  was  beyond  her  powers 
of  speech. 

"  The  next  I  know,  to  tell  clearly,  was  that  two  men 
had  me  by  the  arm,  one  each  side,  and  were  walking  me 
along  the  road  out  of  the  town.     One  told  me  the  end 


386  AX  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

of  it.  The  Justices  had  no  mind  I  should  be  killed,  and 
stopped  the  riot.  But  they  would  not  have  me  in  the 
town,  and  these  two  were  to  see  me  well  on  my  way,  and 
turn  me  loose  to  make  shift  for  myself.  One  of  them 
I  knew  from  a  boy.  But  he  thought  me  a  witch,  and 
his  heart  was  hardened." 

"  But  what  money  had  you,  mistress  ?  " 

"  Not  a  penny — they  had  taken  it  all.  But  the 
Reverend  Dean  had  sent  me  a  crown,  being  unwilling 
I  should  starve  outright.  And  the  little  brooch  they  sent 
me  back  too,  being  mightily  afeared  of  it,  and  even 
af eared  to  destroy  it." 

She  then  described  how  the  officers  of  the  Court  had 
been  only  just  in  time  to  save  her  from  the  mob,  one  of 
whom  had  a  tale  to  tell  of  how  the  nose  of  a  witch  being 
fairly  slit  of  both  sides,  her  powers  for  mischief  would  be 
gone  for  good.  And  thus  it  was  that  when  these  officers 
left  her  she,  finding  all  her  bosom  bloodstained,  and  guess- 
ing the  nature  of  her  wound  from  the  pain  of  it,  went  to 
seek  for  help  at  a  cottage,  saying  she  had  fallen  and  was 
badly  hurt.  The  goodwife  at  this  cottage,  being  kindly- 
hearted,  not  only  tended  the  cut,  strapping  it  together 
with  a  plaster,  but  kept  her  in  her  cottage  a  day,  giving 
her  time  for  rest,  which  she  needed  all  the  mor^  that  her 
leg  was  lame  from  a  bad  kick,  given  in  the  crowd.  After 
which  she  went  on  her  way,  having  made  up  her  mind 
to  seek  Sir  Oliver  at  his  own  home,  though  with  what 
intent  was  outside  John  Rackham's  powers  of  surmise. 
He  presumed  that  Mrs.  Trant  knew  her  own  business 
best. 

She  had  not  been  at  any  loss  to  find  her  way,  having 
often  heard  tell  of  the  wayside  places  betwixt  Kips  Manor 
and  Croxley,  and  the  crown  the  Dean  sent  her  was  enough 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  387 

to  stave  off  exhaustion  by  hunger.  But  she  had  to  beg 
shelter,  sometimes  in  barns;  and  once  she  had  slept 
beneath  the  sky,  in  the  warmth  of  a  brick-kiln.  She 
was  near  the  end  of  her  strength  when  she  arrived  at  the 
New  Hall,  havings  learned  the  description  of  it  from  the 
host  of  the  Three  Sheaves,  four  miles  off. 

"  And  now  you've  got  here,  mistress,  what  be  you 
thinking  to  do  ?  '^  So  spoke  Mr.  Rackham,  adding :  ''  I 
can't  have  you  here — that  you'll  understand  without 
telling.'^ 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Rackham,  how  can  you  think  I  would  thrust 
myself  on  you!  'T would  be  unseemly.  No — no!  So 
soon  as  Sir  Oliver  is  out  of  bed,  which  I  take  it  will  not 
be  long  now,  I  will  go  to  him,  and  make  my  petition  to  be 
allowed  to  remain  on  in  the  house,  and  be  of  what  service 
I  may.  'Twas  too  late  last  night,  and  they  said  at  the 
Three  Sheaves  where  I  should  find  Master  Rackham.'' 

"  Sir  Oliver  is  away.  And  if  he  comes  back,  mistress, 
I  doubt  he  won't  be  best  pleased  at  the  sight  of  you.  And 
so  I  tell  you." 

"  Best  pleased  at  the  sight  of  me  ?  "  She  laughed  a  low 
laugh,  uncomfortable  to  hear.  But  John  Rackham  w^as 
not  impressionable.  She  went  on :  "  Why — he  thinks  me 
safe  in  gaol !  "  Then  she  made  as  though  she  was  ready 
for  a  greater  confidence,  going  nearer  and  speaking  lower. 
"  You  might  not  think  it,  but  there  was  a  time  when 
Squire  Raydon — I  mean  Sir  Oliver — ^would  have  laughed 
to  be  told  he  would  want  me  burned  or  hanged.  He  was 
a  devil  to  me,  but  'twas  another  sort  of  devil."  Her  voice 
dropped  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  her  hearer  was  aware 
that  all  this  was  not  without  its  gratification  for  him. 
It  tickled  him  in  some  way  not  quite  definable,  except 
in  so  far  as  it  implied  mere  homage  to  his  vanity.     But 


388  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE 

any  coarse  man  licks  his  lips  over  an  insight  into  a 
woman's  story,  told  by  herself. 

He  beamed  with  reciprocity  and  understanding.  A 
wrinkle  towards  a  half-closed  eye  helped,  and  a  knee-slap 
added  emphasis  to  ''  Wouldnt  I  have  thought  it  ? 
Odscockles,  Mistress  Susan,  I've  said  it  myself,  over  and 
again  ere  now.  To  think  of  that  now — ^you  and  Master 
Oliver!  But  he  was  a  rare  one."  He  dwelt  upon  his 
young  master's  gay  career  of  glorious  wickedness  with  a 
noisome  glee,  not  altogether  unpaternal.  Then  he 
laughed  till  the  tears  came,  saying  piecemeal :  ''  He's  a 
sad  rogue — he's  a  woundy  rogue — among  the  girls !  But 
they  can't  resist  'un.     Catch  they !  " 

^^  Do  you  think  I  have  much  love  for  him  now,  Mr. 
Eackham  ?  'Not  overmuch.  But  did  you  say  he  was  not 
here  now  ?  "  Then  it  was  the  man's  turn  to  tell  the  tale 
of  what  had  happened  to  Sir  Oliver  since  his  return,  but 
he  was  not  so  glib  with  it,  and  it  did  not  seem  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  Mrs.  Trant,  except  it  were  the  part  that 
related  to  his  second  duel,  and  his  narrow  escape  from 
death.  The  story  of  his  marriage  brought  an  angry  flush 
to  her  face,  teeth  clenched  for  a  moment,  and  a  knitted 
brow.  The  anger  of  true  jealousy  outlives  all  its  allied 
conditions  and  interests.  Susan  had  now  nothing  to  gain 
or  lose  by  any  change  in  Sir  Oliver's  surroundings,  yet 
she  felt  a  new  pang  of  anger  at  his  actual  marriage  with 
Lucinda.  Her  consolation  for  her  own  lot  had  always 
been  that  the  victims  who  followed  her  had  fared  no  bet- 
ter than  she.     Why  was  this  one  to  score  a  success  ? 

Eackham  grinned  at  the  visible  signs  on  her  face  of  the 
storm  within,  and  said :  "  You'll  maybe  get  a  chance  to 
give  the  master  a  bit  of  your  mind  to-day  or  to-morrow, 
Mistress  Susan.     I  take  it,  not  unlikely  he's  on  his  way 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  389 

here.  That  young  man  you  see  at  Kips  .  .  .  Oh — gone 
before  you  came,  had  he?  .  ,  .  well,  he  rode  over  yes- 
terday to  tell  Dame  Cecily  the  master  was  coming— him 
and  Lady  Raydon.    Ah — Lady  Raydon  in  earnest  now  I '' 

The  woman's  eyes  rested  shrewdly  on  him  a  moment, 
and  then  she  seemed  to  consider,  and  finally  to  adopt 
some  resolution.  A  tone  of  cajolery  came  back  to  her,  as 
she  said ;  ^'  Come  now,  Master  Rackham,  you'll  never  say 
you  believed  all  that  tale  you  told  the  magistrates.  It 
was  put  upon  you  to  say  it." 

Rackham  fired  up.  ''  What  will  I  never  say  ?  Why — 
plague  take  it  all.  Mistress  Susan,  are  you  going  to  say  a 
word  of  it  was  false  ?  Who  set  me  down  to  stare  my  eyes 
out  at  a  cursed  little  jiggumbob  with  a  devil  in  it?  Who 
shut  'em  up  tight  for  me  whether  I  would  or  no?  Who 
set  me  on  to  blabbing  Master  Oliver's  affairs  ?  "  For  he 
used,  speaking  hotly,  the  name  his  inner  soul  always  gave 
to  his  employer. 

Susan,  despite  of  her  nose,  could  be  scornful  still,  with 
those  two  green  eyes  to  help  her,  watching  for  the  dawn  of 
new  embarrassment  in  Mr.  Rackham's  mind.  "  If  men 
are  such  fools  as  to  believe  all  one  tells  them,  what's  to 
make  them  wiser?  Just  think  of  that  silly  rooster-cock 
with  a  chalk  line  down  his  beak!  Why  does  it  stick  so 
tight  to  the  barn-floor?  Dost  think  the  Devil  comes  to 
hold  it  down,  John  Rackham?  JSTot  he! — no  more  than 
he  came  to  shut  thine  eyes,  silly  man!  He  has  other 
matter  on  hand  than  that,  trust  him !  No — no ;  the  bird's 
a  fool,  and  there's  the  whole  of  his  story.  And  thou  art 
a  fool,  and  that's  the  whole  of  thine,"  She  spoke  to  the 
old  man  as  to  a  child  of  ten, 

Rackham,  speechless  with  indignation  at  first,  found 
his  voice   at  last   in  spite   of   the  gaze  fixed   on   him. 


300  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

"  What — will  you  stand  to  it  there  was  no  Devil,  when  I 
saw  him  and  his  imps,  plain  as  I  see  you  now?  If  you 
be  not  in  the  DeviFs  confidence,  Mistress  Trant,  never 
woman  was !  " 

"  You  saw  the  Devil  and  his  imps,  Mr.  Kackham  ? 
Very  like — in  a  dream !  A  dream  is  the  wind  over  a  hill 
— for  if  it  be  never  so  loud  this  night,  to-morrow  it  may 
be  still/'  She  half-said,  half-sung,  the  words  of  an  old 
ballad ;  then  harking  back  on  it,  would  have  sung  a  verse 
aloud,  "  Sweavens  are  swift,  quoth  little  Johan   .    .    . '' 

But  Rackham,  incensed  and  fuming,  cut  her  singing 
short  with,  "  A  dream — a  dream !  Why,  God-a-mercy, 
woman,  what  shall  we  have  next?  Shall  I  be  a  dream 
myself?  I  tell  you  this — I  saw  him  plain  as  I  see  you 
now.  .  .  .  How  big,  did  ye  say? — why,  nothing  to 
make  one's  teeth  chatter,  but  no  smaller  than  a  big  tom- 
cat. .  .  .  What's  to  snicker  at  in  that,  mistress  ?  "  For 
Mrs.  Trant  had  burst  into  a  laugh  as  at  something 
irresistible. 

"  Oh,  the  fool,  the  fool  that  thou  art,  John  Eackham ! 
Why — 'twas  the  cat  itself — this  imp  of  darkness ! " 
Then,  with  a  sudden  gravity :  "  Come  now — be  a  fool  no 
longer!  Think  of  what  you  say — all  this  monstrous  tale 
come  of  a  simple  brooch  my  mother  gave  me  to  wear  the 
year  my  father  died!  Take  it  in  your  hand,  good  man, 
and  see  thine  own  folly,  to  lay  such  a  power  to  the  door 
of  an  innocent  little  stone,  just  polished  up  .  .  .  nay, 
don't  be  feared  of  it — keep  your  cowardice  for  a  good 
occasion,  not  to  shudder  at  a  harmless  trinket." 

"  I'll  none  of  it,"  said  John  Rackham,  putting  his 
hands  behind  him.  And  then,  with  suspicion  in  face  and 
voice :  "  Why  would  you  have  me  handle  it,  mistress  ?  " 
But  all  the  while  he  was  conscious  of  a  need  to  resist  a 


'A'N  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOXOE  391 

certain  appeal  this  woman's  comeliness  made  to  whatever 
of  youth  was  left  in  him,  strangely  qualified  now  by  the 
injury  to  her  nose.  It  was  odd  it  should  be  so! — but  so 
it  was.  He  felt  that  that  slur  on  her  face  helped  him. 
against  the  cajolery  of  her  voice. 

'^  Be  at  peace,  friend !  "  said  she,  with  the  same  half- 
mocking  tone,  as  one  speaks  to  soothe  a  child  that  is  not 
really  hurt.  ^'  Thou  shalt  not  handle  the  awful  thing 
then.  See  here — it  shall  go  in  here — safe  out  of  the  way — 
there !  Be  happy,  Master  Rackham !  '^  She  slipped  the 
apple  of  discord  into  her  bosom,  out  of  sight. 

But  Rackham  was  not  happy.  He  could  not  choose  but 
protest  against  the  affront  to  his  manhood.  A  little 
ridiculous  shiny  brooch !  Perhaps  after  all  he  had  only 
been  his  own  dupe,  and  Mrs.  Trant  was  no  witch.  He 
could  forgive  her  lips,  her  eyes,  her  palm,  unclosed  as  it 
left  the  trinket  in  hiding  to  show  all  fair ;  but  he  slightly 
resented  her  nose.  However,  that  would  improve  with 
time.  Only,  her  contempt  of  his  terrors  rankled;  and 
presently,  as  probably  she  had  foreseen,  he  broke  out  awk- 
wardly :  ^^  Get  un  out  again — diet's  have  a  look ! '' 

"  I'll  warrant  it  to  do  no  harm,"  said  Susan,  and  Rack- 
ham  could  see  the  stain  of  bloody  still  on  her  bosom  and 
undervest,  as  she  fished  up  the  brooch  from  some  recess 
in  it.  ^'  There  then — touch  it  and  hold  it !  "  Her  voice 
had  in  it  such  mockery  that  he  half  repented  of  his  re- 
assertion  of  his  dignity. 

But  he  could  not  go  back  now.  He  took  it  in  his  hand, 
turning  it  over.  Had  he  been  daft,  to  allow  this  insignifi- 
cant thing  to  bedevil  him  so  ? 

"  If  you  give  it  a  rub  and  look  in  when  it's  shiny,  you'll 
see  why  my  lord  and  the  parson — all  the  fools — were 
feared  for  their  safety."     Susan  spoke  in  a  comfortable 


392  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOIS^OR 

sort  of  way,  and  went  closer,  to  help  in  looking  in  to  see. 
Rackham  would  have  met  this  with  some  vulgar  famili- 
arity had  he  been  a  bit  younger,  and  she  any  easy  young 
Moll  or  Betsy  of  his  early  days.  But  the  truth  is  he  was 
afraid  of  her.  ^ot,  however,  to  the  extent  of  shrinking 
from  her  proximity;  quite  the  reverse!  He  rather  main- 
tained his  inspection  the  longer  for  it,  as  a  satisfaction 
he  could  appreciate,  provided  it  committed  him  to 
nothing. 

It  was  ill  for  him  that  he  did  so.  For  while  he  was 
still  trying  to  decide  what  way  the  reflection  warped  his 
features,  a  drowsy  fit — or  something  that  resembled  one, 
yet  left  him  broad  awake — came  over  him.  But  his  eye- 
sight did  not  serve  him  well,  for  it  was  only  by  a  sense  of 
touch  that  he  knew  that  the  woman  drew  her  hands  down 
each  side  of  his  face,  which  was  far  from  unpleasant  to 
him.  He  accepted  her  doing  so  as  reasonable,  but  could 
not  guess  why  he  did  so.  Because  he  knew  perfectly  well, 
look  you,  that  it  was  i^nreasonable ! 

Neither  did  he  at  the  moment  question  her  half-singing, 
half-saying  a  sort  of  song  or  rhyme  that  was  surely  gib- 
berish, yet  seemed  plausible  too — somehow  applicable  to 
themselves  and  something  undefined,  that  spun  round. 
However  strange  it  may  seem,  that  most  nearly  describes 
his  consciousness  of  something  that  he  knew  had  hap- 
pened when,  coming  as  it  were  to  himself,  he  heard  Mrs. 
Trant  say,  plain  enough:  "-We  shall  do  now.  ..  .  .  You 
see.  Master  Rackham,  'tis  as  I  told  you — no  harm  in  it  at 
all!  Now  give  it  me  back.*'  And  then  felt  her  take  the 
brooch  from  his  hand.  Then  he  felt  curious  about  what 
had   happened. 

"  What  was  you  a-singing  of  to  yourself  V   ,    .    • 

"When?" 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE  393 

'^  But  now.     A  minute  agone."    He  seemed  suspicious. 

"  Oh— that !    '  Three  thick  thimbles.'    That  is  naught." 

"  Ay !— but  what  is  it  ? '' 

'^  Just  a  lilt  of  the  nursery.  The  children  sing  it.  .  .  . 
iWhy  did  I?  Sheer  idleness  of  tongue,  I  take  it.  Why 
should  I  not?" 

^'  'Twas  none  of  your  bedevilments  ?  " 

^^  Out  upon  it,  Master  Rackham !  You're  just  besotted 
with  your  fancies.  Is  it  like  I  should  play  off  any  tricks 
on  you — a  poor  weak  woman  alone  here !  " 

"  I  wouldn't  trust  ye,  mistress."  He  seemed  neverthe- 
less a  little  disturbed  by  the  song-incident,  and  went 
away  abruptly,  saying  ^'  I  have  gotten  a  sick  horse  to 
see  to." 

If,  as  it  would  appear  from  all  this,  Mrs.  Trant  had  a 
second  time  bewitched  her  victim,  no  visible  result  came 
from  it  that  day,  unless  it  were  that  the  groom  showed  a 
singular  docility,  assenting  easily  to  her  remaining  at  the 
stables,  and  complying  with  all  her  wishes,  although  some 
of  them  were  capricious  enough,  and  whimsical.  The 
story  is  silent  as  to  any  other  influences  she  may  have 
brought  to  bear — many  such  may  be  imagined — and 
seems  to  imply  that  these  enchantments  were  fruits  of  the 
Black  Art,  not  such  as  are  every-day  occurrences.  Some 
of  her  most  reasonable  requirements,  too,  were  those  most 
difficult  to  satisfy;  as,  for  instance,  her  desire  to  replace 
the  garments  she  had  on  with  -others,  fresh  and  unsoiled. 
How  Rackham  came  by  some  he  provided  her  with  does 
not  appear,  nor  is  it  important  to  know  it,  but  the  fact 
that  he  did  so  shows  how  completely  he  had  again  come 
under  her  sway,  magical  or  otherwise.  His  compliance 
with  demands  less  reasonable  shows  this  even  more  con- 
vincingly.    As,  for  instance,  when  on  the  second  day  of 


394:  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO:^rOE 

her  sojourn  with  him,  after  sunset,  she  says  to  him: 
^'  Master  Rackham,  open  me  the  door  through  into  the 
garden.  I  have  a  mind  to  see  the  big  yellow  moon  off 
the  terrace.    Here  the  stable  hides  it.'' 

"  That  door  never  be  opened,  Mistress  Sukey.''  He 
was  conscious  of  his  subjection,  but  fitfully  in  revolt 
against  it.  And  the  keeping  of  this  door  closed  was  a 
kind  of  chronic  religious  observance  with  him.  He  had 
only  opened  it  once  in  eighteen  years,  on  the  morning 
when  Sir  Oliver  came  back  from  the  duel. 

"  You  will  open  it  for  me.  Master  Rackham.'' 

"  'Tis  no  use  asking  me,  mistress.  That  door  never 
he  opened.'' 

"  I  did  not  ask  thee,  good  John."  She  spoke  to  him 
more  than  ever  as  to  a  child.  "  I  did  but  say  you  would 
open  it,  whether  I  asked  it  or  no !  Bide  in  patience,  and 
see  if  it  do  not  prove  so."  And  she  says  not  a  word 
more,  but  sits  on,  taking  no  heed  of  his  grunted  negative, 
her  green  eyes  fixed  on  him.  It  is  strange  to  watch  their- 
effect,  as  the  free  bird  is  said  to  flutter  to  the  serpent's 
jaws,  trapped  by  his  cold,  persistent  gaze.  She  seems 
content  to  wait.     He  will  do  it  in  the  end. 

Presently  he  speaks :  "  I'll  be  damned  or  ever  I  open 
yon  door,  for  thou  or  any  woman,"  says  he.  To  which 
she  replies,  unmoved :  "  You  will  do  it  ere  then,  I  take 
it.  Master  Rackham.  !N'ot  very  long  hence.  Time  enough 
for  me  to  see  the  yellow  moonrise."  He  grunts  again, 
as  one  who  says  defiantly,  "  We  shall  see !  " 

But  strange  to  say,  in  a  little  while  his  fingers  itch  to 
take  a  bunch  of  keys  from  the  pocket  of  a  coat  that  hangs 
on  a  nail  by  the  little  stable  window — for  it  was  there  this 
conversation  took  place — and  it  is  to  him  like  some  chance 
irritation  of  the  skin  that  one  may  make  oath  against 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISH0:N^0R  395 

touching  or  rubbing,  but  tbat  is  ever  victorious  in  the  end. 
He  has  to  look  for  those  keys,  will  he  nill  he.  Having 
found  them,  he  goes  up  his  ladder,  and  taking  from  a 
locker  a  larger  key,  returns  with  it  down  the  ladder,  mut- 
tering to  himself  at  intervals. 

But  Susan  Trant  says  never  a  word  more,  seeming  still 
content  to  wait,  until  he  actually  goes  out,  key  in  hand,  to 
all  seeming  to  do  her  bidding.  Then  she  takes  from  a 
hook  where  she  has  hung  it  her  cloak  with  the  hood  that 
w^as  the  gift  of  the  Squire's  mother,  and  follows  him  out, 
going  towards  that  garden  door.  The  kick  she  got  in  the 
crowd  has  still  its  effect  on  her  gait,  and  she  goes  with  a 
limp. 

Rackham  had  the  key  in  the  door  as  she  approached 
him.  He  turned  to  her  as  he  opened  it,  saying :  ^^  What 
tale  shall  you  tell  to  Dame  Langdon  if  you  meet  her? 
Ah ! — or  to  ere  a  one  of  them,  for  that  matter  ?  "  To 
which  she  replied :  ^'  That  concerns  me.  Master  Rackham. 
Draw  water  in  your  own  pail:  leave  me  mine." 

He  had  stood  a  moment  wondering  what  could  have 
possessed  him  to  act  thus — to  depart  from  a  time- 
honoured  usage  at  the  whim  of  such  a  woman  as  this — 
when  his  ear  was  caught  by  the  sound  of  horses'  feet. 
He  had  a  keen  ear  for  the  footstep  of  a  horse,  and  he 
would  have  sworn  that  was  Alcibiades,  Sir  Oliver's  roan, 
that  he  rode  away  on  six  weeks  ago.  Now,  although  he 
did  not  closely  analyse  why  it  was  that  he  was  so  un- 
willing Sir  Oliver  should  meet  Susan  Trant  face  to  face, 
he  was  sure  he  would  be  glad  to  get  her  out  of  the  way, 
provisionally.  But  when  he  tried  to  follow  her  through 
the  open  door,  he  found  he  could  not.  He  stood  with  his 
feet  glued  to  the  ground,  unable  to  stir  from  the  spot. 

Presently,  back  she  comes;  locks  the  door  and  slips  the 


396  AK  AFFAIR  OF  DISHOISTOR 

key  in  her  pocket.  "  Where's  the  need  to  stand  there 
looking  like  a  fool  f  "  says  she  curtly,  but  with  an  under-i 
laugh  at  his  expense.  "  There's  the  master  and  her 
ladyship — her  new  ladyship — coming  along  the  lane 
a-horseback.  See  you  be  ready  to  receive  them."  Then 
she  goes  straightway  up  the  ladder,  and  hides  herself  in 
Rackham's  bedroom,  where  certainly  none  will  come  to 
look  for  her. 

As  she  goes,  he  comes  to  himself,  with  occasional 
grunts  of  astonishment,  and  a  disposition  to  slap  his 
limbs  and  examine  his  hands,  as  though  he  needed  tangible 
evidence  of  his  own  existence.  The  sound  of  hoofs  comes 
nearer,  and  the  voices  of  the  riders.  What's  that  her 
ladyship  is  saying? 

"  Woman  on  the  terrace,  sweetheart  ?  What  woman  ? 
You'll  turn  all  the  milk  sour,  Oliver  mine,  if  you  look 
like  that.  What's  all  the  to-do  f  Why  not  a  woman  on  the 
terrace  ? " 

But  Oliver  pays  no  attention  to  Lucinda's  rally.  Hq 
is  knocking  at  the  stable  gate  with  the  butt-end  of  his 
whip.  "  Where's  that  lazy  knave,  John  Rackham  ?  .  .  . 
Ho — there  you  are — Master  John !  Who's  yonder  woman 
on  the  terrace  ?  .  .  .  None  of  your  lies — I  saiv  her !  " 
By  now,  the  gate  is  open,  and  the  young  groom,  who  has 
ridden  up  from  the  rear,  is  dismounting  Lucinda. 

'^  If  there's  e'er  a  woman  there.  Master  Oliver,"  says 
Rackham  slowly,  ^^  she's  one  I  know  nowt  about,  except 
she  be  Dame  Langdon  or  one  of  the  serving  wenches.  It 
be  they — one  or  other  on  'em! " 

Oliver  is  seriously  disquieted  about  this  woman,  and 
Lucinda  cannot  see  why.  Had  it  not  been  for  catching 
sight  of  her,  Oliver  would  no  doubt  have  passed  the 
stables,  and  ridden  on  to  the  house-door  to  dismount — a 


AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOI^OE  397 

more  ceremonial  home-coming  for  such  an  occasion.  E'ow 
he  is  off  his  horse,  and  throwing  the  rein  carelessly  to  the 
young  groom,  strides  into  the  stable-yard,  calling  for  the 
key  of  the  door — the  key  of  the  door!  Get  him  the  key 
of  the  door  at  once! 

Rackham  dares  not  venture  on  an  attempt  to  recover 
the  key  from  Mrs.  Trant,  for  the  window  of  his  den  where 
she  has  hidden  herself  opens  just  above  the  door  in  the 
garden  wall,  and  every  word  would  be  audible  to  Sir 
Oliver  and  Lucinda,  waiting  for  his  return  to  open  it. 
So  he  makes  a  pretence  to  hunt  for  it  in  the  stable  itself. 
Oliver  and  Lucinda  suppose  themselves  alone,  and  speak 
freely. 

"  Crazy  Oliver !  "  says  she.  "  Let  the  woman  be !  One 
of  the  maids,  or  Joan  Cockerell,  the  gardener's  wife. 
Why  such  a  to-do  ?  " 

'^  Old  Joan !  As  if  I  should  not  know  old  Joan !  No, 
no ! — this  is  some  trick,  or  the  Devil's  in  it." 

"  What  can  you  mean,  Oliver  ?  "  She  speaks  seriously, 
for  she  is  always  haunted  by  that  fear  about  his  brain. 

"  I  suppose  it's  that  infernal  dream  I  dreamt  .  .  . 
yes — I  told  you  once,  I  know.  A  damned  dream  about  my 
mother — rest  her  soul! — on  the  terrace  here,  limping 
along.  She  limped,  you  know.  .  .  .  But  I  told  you  of 
it?  .  .  ."  And  then,  John  Rackham  coming  back  with 
some  tale  of  why  he  could  not  at  the  moment  lay  hands 
on  the  key,  he  rated  him  well  for  his  carelessness,  and  of 
course  Lucinda  asked  no  more  about  the  dream  and  the 
figure  of  the  woman  on  the  terrace. 

But  every  word  they  had  said  together  had  been  heard 
and  marked  by  Susan  Trant  in  the  room  over  the  stable, 
quite  close  to  them. 


CHAPTEK  XXIII 

Those  who  have  lived  under  extreme  tension,  knowing 
that  some  great  predominating  misery  fills  their  lives — 
losing  it,  if  ever,  only  in  sleep ;  waking  to  it  always  in  the 
raw  cold  daylight — these  know,  too,  how  the  actual  we 
have  to  face  thrusts  its  petty  claims  upon  us,  and  will  be 
heard,  even  though  we  stop  our  ears  against  it.  So,  for 
the  moment,  when  the  man  Lucinda  loved  and  hated  had 
his  foot  on  the  stirrup  for  the  first  time-  since  his  trial  of 
strength  with  Death,  her  thought  was,  "  Will  he  bear  it  ? 
Is  he  safe  ?  "  For  he  was  still  Oliver,  with  it  all !  Love 
outbid  Hate,  for  that  moment;  and  then,  when  she  saw 
him  safe,  or  seeming  so,  gave  place  again  to  the  ever- 
present  imaginings  that  shadowed  her  heart  and  made 
her  life  funereal.  Was  not  this  the  Old  Hall,  her  home; 
with,  as  Oliver  had  said,  a  memory  of  her  father  in  every 
room,  an  echo  of  his  voice  in  every  sound  ?  And  who, 
she  asked  herself  again  and  again,  was  the  more  guilty  of 
his  death — she  or  Oliver?  She  had  called  her  lover 
murderer;  had  she  the  right  to  brand  that  name  upon 
him?  At  least,  she  should  share  it  with  him — share  the 
burden  of  a  penitence  she  hoped  might  be  his  one  day; 
praying  daily,  as  she  did,  that  a  time  would  come  when 
his  evil  deed  would  lie  less  light  upon  his  soul. 

For,  in  truth,  one  thing  that  made  her  lot  hardest  to 
bear  was  Oliver^s  equanimity;  it  was  but  too  plain  that 
the  panoply  of  a  worldly  morality  shielded  him;  kept 
conscience  at  bay,  sheltered  his  heart  unstung,  and  let  it 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  399 

harden  in  security.  Yet  may  it  not  tave  been  that  his 
guilt  was  really  less  than  hers ;  for,  after  all — what  course 
had  been  open  to  him  ?  She  was  sufficiently  imbued  with 
the  ideas  of  her  time  to  regard  the  refusal  of  a  challenge 
as  impossible  in  practice.  And  might  not  his  plea  be  al- 
lowed weight,  that  his  action  had  been  forced  upon  him 
by  the  skill  of  his  opponent.  Yes — he  may  have,  must 
have,  meant  to  end  a  bloodless  duel  by  some  shift  that 
would  yield  a  satisfaction  to  honour,  and  even  build  a 
bridge  for  reconciliation.  But  her  father's  sword,  and 
his  determination,  were  too  strong  for  that. 

Had  Oliver  fallen  and  her  father  lived,  to  plead  for 
pardon  for  the  slaying  of  her  lover,  would  he  not  have  had 
to  confess  that  it  was  he  that  had  provoked  the  duel,  not 
Oliver  ?  It  was  a  thought  always  more  or  less  in  her  mind, 
and  very  strongly  now  as  she  rode  away  beside  him,  with 
the  consciousness  also  upon  her  of  the  vows  she  had  spoken 
to  him  but  a  month  since,  believing  always  she  should 
never  bring  herself  to  observe  them.  Then,  again — look 
at  this :  had  Oliver  but  come  to  her  with  the  fresh  stain  of 
blood  upon  his  hands — had  he  confessed  all  and  thrown 
himself  on  her  mercy — then  how  infinitely  stronger  that 
plea  would  have  been,  that  only  a  narrow^  chance  had 
made  him  the  survivor! 

So  long  as  she  was  in  her  old  home,  Lucinda  could 
see  nothing  in  this  plea  but  a  mere  law  quibble,  an 
evasion.  She  could  not  split  straws  over  her  father's 
grave — could  admit  no  question  of  his  conduct.  But  as 
she  and  her  companion  drew  away  to  the  open  down,  and 
left  the  Old  Hall  and  her  childhood  behind,  she  was  able 
at  least  to  admit  the  thought  that  she  herself  was  answer- 
able for  his  death  as  much  as  her  husband.  Her  conduct 
had  left  him  no  choice,  in  her  brother's  absence.     It  was 


400  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHOKOK 

purely  a  question  of  honour  against  dishonor.  And  her 
course  of  action  had  been  of  her  own  choosing;  no  com- 
pulsion had  been  put  upon  her.  It  was  all  honest, 
straightforward  guile  on  Oliver's  part.  Things  were  held 
fair  in  love  that  are  held  treachery  in  war ;  but,  then,  con- 
sider— women  are  only  women,  when  all  is  said. 

At  least,  Oliver  had  made  such  amends  as  he  could, 
such  as  would  be  judged  so  by  the  same  Court  that  defines 
Sin,  and  damns  it.  Need  she,  this  being  so,  stifle  a 
feeling  akin  to  gladness  that  he  rode  so  straight,  never 
flinching  at  the  movement  of  his  horse,  seeming  to  give 
the  lie  to  all  Dr.  Phinehas's  gloomy  forebodings  ?  It  was 
no  disloyalty  to  a  beloved  memory,  surely,  to  grant  to 
Oliver  as  much  of  concession  and  pardon  as  she  would 
have  granted  to  her  father  himself  had  the  position  of  the 
two  men  been  reversed. 

The  young  groom,  dispatched  the  day  after  that  on 
which  we  last  saw  Oliver  and  Lucinda,  to  give  notice  of 
their  arrival  at  Croxley  the  same  evening,  was  a  prema- 
ture herald.  For  Dr.  Phinehas  was  so  urgent  that  one 
more  day  at  least  should  be  given  to  absolute  rest,  that 
Sir  Oliver  made  that  much  concession  grudgingly.  The 
morning  after  saw  the  newly-wedded,  but  previously 
married,  couple — surely  the  best  description  of  the  fact? 
— on  their  way  back  to  their  future  home.  They  were 
alone;  their  only  escort,  the  same  young  groom,  having 
left  them  a  mile  from  the  house,  to  take  another  route 
as  far  as  the  Abbey,  where  he  was  to  rejoin  them. 

There  is  nothing  that  stirs  life  to  exultation  more  than 
the  rhythmic  lift  of  the  horse's  body  beneath  its  rider; 
the  rejoicing  of  the  creature  in  its  speed  and  power  is  a 
thing  irresistible.  Even  the  strong  swimmer  that  breasts 
the  light  ripple  of  the  sea-waves  in  the  morning  sunshine, 


AJSr  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOE  401 

and  forgets  the  land  in  the  splendour  of  his  freedom,  is 
not  more  divinely  intoxicated  with  the  joy  of  living  than 
the  rider  at  one  v^ith  his  horse  on  some  long  stretch  of 
level  golden  sand,  or  smooth  sound  slopes  the  flocks  have 
cropped  to  sheer  perfection  while  generations  lived  and 
died.  Who  can  resist  it,  when  a  whispered  suggestion  of 
the  bridle  sends  the  glorious  creature  that  bears  him  hot- 
foot across  the  glorious  land,  through  the  sweet  air  the 
skylarks  fill  with  music  above,  striking  responsive  music 
from  the  sweet  heart  of  the  turf  below?  It  was  not  in 
Lucinda  to  feel  no  healing  to  her  wounded  soul,  no 
counter-stress  to  her  misery  in  such  a  new-found  exulta- 
tion; with  all  her  youth  to  back  her,  and  a  love  she  could 
not  quench  for  the  man  who  rode  beside  her  still  poison- 
ing— if  you  will  have  it  so — the  sources  of  her  being. 

And  yet,  when  he  and  she  reined  in  their  steeds  at  the 
end  of  a  scour  across  the  down  she  could  not  but  exult 
in,  she  felt  disloyal  to  the  dead ! 

If  the  dead  are  a  memory  and  no  more,  what  is  their 
profit  from  the  lamentations  of  their  survivors,  each  bound 
to  take  his  turn  of  Death  in  the  end  ?  But  if  those  lamen- 
tations reach  them  still,  powerless  to  make  us  hear  their 
voices,  may  not  every  tear  we  shed  count  only  to  their 
loss? — add  only  to  the  bitterness  of  an  enforced  silence? 
Such  a  thought  would  have  seemed  to  Lucinda  an  aggrava- 
tion of  disloyalty,  and  she  shut  the  door  of  her  mind 
against  it.     But  it  hung  about  the  threshold. 

It  was  not  the  only  plea  in  waiting  there,  on  the  watch 
to  unsettle  her  resolution  to  remain  with  Oliver  no  longer 
than  was  needed  to  gain  her  end.  It  had  been  easy  to  put 
aside  their  unexplained  talk  about  her  supposed  forgive- 
ness by  saying  it  was  an  hallucination  of  Oliver's,  and 
calling  in  Susan  Trant's  necromancies  to  help.     But  it 


402  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

was  hard  to  believe  it  heart-whole.  May  not  she  herself 
have  said  something  to  warrant  the  delusion,  or  produce 
it?  Could  she  be  sure  of  anything  she  said  or  did  in  so 
terrible  a  time? 

Anyhow,  her  bewilderment  at  this  story  came  back  to 
her  as  they  went  slowly,  slowly,  down  the  steep  descent 
above  the  old  bridge  that  the  floods  had  spared  for  cen- 
ries  in  the  face  of  prophesied  disaster.  It  became  unen- 
durable as  she  dwelt  upon  the  man  beside  her,  and  tried 
to  see  in  him  the  victim  of  hallucination.  How  conceive 
it,  now  that  nothing  was  there  to  suggest  the  malady  that 
might  have  touched  his  brain?  But  so  it  often  is,  with 
epilepsy,  health  and  strength  remaining  unimpaired  in 
the  intervals  of  the  attacks.  How  else  could  Julius  Caesar, 
who  is  said  to  have  suffered  thus,  have  won  and  kept  sway 
of  the  whole  world  in  such  intervals  except  they  found 
him  free? 

And  yet  .  .  .  how  about  the  moment  close  following 
upon  an  attack?  Her  lover's  was  so  recent,  that  time 
at  Kips.  The  fit  had  but  just  left  him.  .  .  .  Yes — it 
may  have  been  an  arrant  delusion.     But   .    .    . 

She  could  not  bear  the  speculative  conflict  in  her  mind, 
and  spoke  suddenly.  "  Oliver !  What  was  it  ? ''  For 
she  forgot  that  he  knew  nothing  of  her  thought. 

"  What  was  what  ?  "  said  he. 

"  What  was  it  that  made  you  think  I  had  forgot- 
ten. ...  I  mean,  that  made  you  tell  me  that  tale  of — 
of — my  hand  and  the  rings  ? "  She  chose  what  she  re- 
membered best,  for  identification. 

"  Faith !  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  know.  'Twas  a  true  tale, 
for  my  own  part  in  it,  and  that's  the  most  I  can  tell  you, 
Lucy  mine !  " 

"  Then  you  really  believed   .    .    .    ? " 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  403 

"  Believed  it  was  you  ?  That's  so,  right  enough.  And 
you  believed  it  was  me,  at  the  time." 

"  Oh,  Oliver! — what  a  foolish  speech!  /  was  not  there. 
I  was  past  Merrows  Camp  before  the  storm  came.  There 
were  just  a  few  big  drops  of  rain  when  Rackham  and  I 
rode  away,  but  all  the  storm  was  over  the  sea — black. 
And  yet  you  say  that  there  was  I — my  hand  and  my  rings 
— ^when  all  the  rain  had  stopped.  Do  think  upon  it, 
Oliver!" 

"  Where's  the  good  to  come  of  thinking,  silly  wench  ? 
'Twas  only  there  in  the  seeming  of  it,  and  we  shall  never 
be  the  nearer,  think  how  we  may !  But  'twas  all  one,  for 
the  upshot.  Call  it  a  dream  if  you  will — it  was  a  dream 
that  made  for  my  acquittal,  and  a  welcome  fantasy 
enough.  I  would  it  had  been  true,  Lucy,  for  thy  sake 
and  mine.  .  .  .  What,  girl ! — why  did  I  say  nothing 
of  it  that  day  in  the  garden  ?  Indeed,  I  might  have  done 
so,  Lucy  mine,  had  it  not  been  for  that  clout  on  the 
head.    ..." 

"  Oh,  think  of  the  provocation,  Oliver.  But  I  was  wild 
and  beside  myself,  and,  indeed,  I  only  half  knew  what  I 
did.     Forgive  me  that !  " 

But  Oliver  made  light  of  the  blow  Lucinda  had  given 
him — had  only  a  laugh  for  it.  "  Thou  shalt  do  it  again, 
my  girl,"  said  he,  "  and  I  shall  deserve  it."  The  more 
easily  he  took  it,  the  nearer  he  came  to  her  old  ideal  of 
him.  The  readier  he  was  to  overlook  this  mere  trifle  in 
her  treatment  of  himself,  the  more  she  suspected  her  inner 
soul  of  nursing  overmuch  resentment  for  a  death  that  might 
well  have  been  his  own.  Think  what  turned  on  the  slip 
of  a  steel  point,  one  way  or  the  other.  And  then,  also, 
what  would  she  have  felt  towards  her  brother  had  her 
husband's  late  wound  been  from  his  weapon,  not  a  wild 


404  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

mischance  of  Oliver's?  Yet  Vincent  had  a  double 
justification. 

But  it  is  hopeless  to  follow  all  the  movements  in  the  war 
of  irrepressible  love  and  extinguishable  resentment,  of 
which  Lucinda's  soul  was  the  battlefield.  Human  im- 
pulses fought  on  the  side  of  her  love  for  Oliver,  while 
the  memory  of  the  dead  interposed  on  the  extinction  of 
her  anger  against  him.  More  and  more  she  found  solace 
in  self -censure — ^was  not  the  blame  finally  and  really  her 
own?  But  whether  this  was  secretly  dictated  by  a  long- 
ing to  justify  her  love  for  Oliver,  and  sanction  it,  who 
can  say? 

She  can  only  be  judged  by  her  actions.  She  was  very 
silent  as  they  got  gradually  down  the  steep  hillside;  was 
silent  but  for  a  word  or  two  of  indifferent  matter  till  they 
had  crossed  the  bridge  and  passed  beyond  the  mill,  and 
were  again  in  the  lonely  road  that  made  a  short  cross-cut, 
for  riders  only,  to  Croxley  Village  and  the  E'ew  Hall. 
The  cart-road  was  longer  and  less  tempting  to  the  feet  of 
ridden  horses. 

At  Ashen  Mow,  where  is  what  is  called  the  Giant's 
Tomb,  she  spoke  out  sudden  again,  "  Oliver ! ''  and  he 
replied :  "  Oliver  what  ? — Oliver  why  ?  Tell  thy  thought, 
my  Lucy."     He  kept  a  yawn  under,  to  say  this. 

"  Did  you  believe — could  you  believe  that  I  ever  spoke 
those  words  to  you?     My  father's  death — think  of  it!  " 

He  warmed  to  more  interest.  "  Believe  it  ?  How 
could  I  doubt  my  own  senses  ?  Maybe  the  time  and  place 
have  got  wrong;  but  the  words,  girl,  the  words  .  .  . 
No,  no ! — I  heard  you  say  the  words,  my  Lucy,  some  time 
that  night,  if  it  was  not  then."  He  spoke  with  an  ear- 
nestness unlike  his  everyday  self  and  she  could  not  but 
believe  him  truthful. 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOI^OE  405 

^^  And  when  you  came  to  seek  me  that  day  in  the  gar- 
den, you  were  thinking  all  the  while  that  the  past  might — 
might  be  forgotten  ?  " 

''  JSTot  with  an  entire  confidence,  dearest !  But  I  had 
had  my  hopes  of  it — ^yes."  There  was  a  growing  tender- 
ness in  his  voice;  half-calculated,  but  half -genuine.  At 
least,  he  had  never  known  himself  so  earnest.  It  was  this 
woman's  amazing  charm.  He  had  only  to  picture  to  him- 
self some  movement  of  hers,  some  change  of  face,  to  bid 
defiance  to  repentance  of  his  marriage,  and  keep  it  at 
bay.     There  was  no  one  like  her. 

"  Oh,  Oliver,  it  was  hard  on  you — to  think  that,  and 
then  to  have  me  do  as  I  did !  "  His  calculations  had  been 
right;  his  truthfulness  a  good  investment.  His  soul  is  in 
the  balance  now,  and  his  two  selves  at  grips  for  the 
mastery.    Which  will  have  the  best  of  it  ? 

He  thought  a  moment  what  was  wisest  to  say.  Forgive 
his  policy — ^was  it  not  a  good  ambition  to  seek  to  seem 
loving,  just,  contrite  for  wrong  done?  He  decided  on: 
^'  Forget  it  all,  my  Lucy !  I  would  that  all  things  had 
been  otherwise.  But  he  who  meddles  with  a  sword-point 
has  to  do  with  death;  it  cannot  be  else.  For  the  meeting 
with  thy  father — well! — how  could  I  avoid  it?  I  was 
rash  to  think  I  could  handle  the  matter,  and  bring  all  to  a 
safe  end.  What  wonder  I  could  not  find  the  heart  or  the 
tongue  to  tell  of  such  a  dire  mischance  ?  .  .  . "  There  he 
stopped,  knowing  he  could  not  say  more  and  leave  all  his 
crafty  devices  that  followed  without  apology  or  explana- 
tion, which  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  give.  So  he 
changed  the  current  of  his  pleading,  knowing  all  his  argu- 
ment, so  far  safe,  might  suffer  wreck.  What  end  was  to 
be  gained,  said  he — and  his  voice  seemed  true  and  earnest 
— by  dwelling  on  what  was  past  recall?     His  one  great 


406  AJSr  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

crime  that  lay  behind  it  all  was  his  passion  for  Lucinda. 
Therein  he  was  guilty,  and  his  guilt  was  great.  He  had 
tried  to  stifle  his  love,  but  in  vain.  He  should  have  fled 
from  her,  but  he  could  not.  He  had  fled  from  her,  but 
her  image  had  been  ever  present  to  him — and  much  more 
of  the  same  sort,  which  none  knew  better  how  to  word  than 
he;  all  the  hackneyed  phrases  he  had  used  so  often,  for 
the  ruin  of  so  many  dupes !  In  this  he  was  a  liar,  for  in 
the  early  days  of  their  meeting  he  knew  nothing  of  Love, 
the  divinest  of  all  passions,  and  was,  indeed,  no  better 
than  a  man.  And  he  knew  that  he  was  now  using  a  knowl- 
edge she  had  taught  him,  to  throw  a  false  glamour  over 
those  early  protestations.  Yet  is  not  this  the  least  un- 
lovable of  the  lies  this  story  has  heard  him  tell  ?  At  least, 
he  had  learned  to  love ;  and,  for  him  who  has  learned  that 
lesson,  there  is  always  hope,  be  he  man  or  brute. 

Be  sure  that  this  language,  all  that  a  woman  loves  best 
to  hear,  lost  nothing  from  a  warmth  that  made  it  ring 
truer  now  in  his  own  ears  as  he  uttered  it  than  it  did  in 
those  earlier  days  when  it  was  at  best  the  mere  stock-in- 
trade  of  a  man  of  pleasure,  to  be  paid  for  in  sterling  gold 
from  an  unsuspicious  heart.  It  came  to  Lucinda,  in  the 
bitter  desert  of  her  unhappiness,  as  a  mirage  of  the  Sahara 
that  is  all  unlike  the  cheats  that  went  before  it;  and  is, 
this  time  for  certain,  sweet  water  and  green  fields.  And 
even  as  the  parched  traveller  welcomes  it  for  the  sheer 
joy  of  believing  them  true,  so  her  soul  welcomed  what  it 
had  not  the  courage  to  doubt. 

"Oh,  Oliver — Oliver!''  she  cried  out  into  the  middle 
of  his  passionate  discourse.  "  The  crime  was  mine — the 
crime  was  mine!  And,  oh  me! — the  coward  that  I  was, 
to  shift  the  guilt  on  thee  to  spare  myself!  Oh,  my  love, 
it  is  I  that  should  be  asking  you  to  pardon  me.     Pardon 


AN  AEFAIK  OF  DISHOJSTOR  407 

me  now,  my  dear,  mj  dear,  and  help  me  to  bear  my  life — 
for  it  is  bitter  to  live  and  know  .  .  .  and  know  ..." 
She  shrank  from  saying  roundly  that  she  knew  herself 
guilty  of  her  father's  death. 

Oliver  flinched  from  the  torrent  of  her  remorse  and 
self-accusation.  But  a  woman's  fancies  must  be  hu- 
moured. If,  now,  he  could  only  think  of  something 
Biblical  to  say,  solemnly!  It  would  seal  the  compact  of 
a  peace  negotiation — ^help  the  ship,  as  it  were,  into  safe 
waters.  Then  there  would  be  an  end  of  this  sort  of  thing. 
Was  old  Ralph  the  only  man  that  had  ever  been  killed 
in  a  duel  ? 

One  or  two  memories  of  Scripture  floated  hazily  in 
Oliver's  mind.  "  Vengeance  is  mine,  saith  the  Lord," 
would  sound  well,  but  Oliver  was  uncertain  of  the  con- 
text. ISTeither  did  it  seem  to  him  reassuring.  "  Joy  in 
Heaven  over  the  sinner  that  repenteth "  was  more  so, 
but — he  could  not  have  said  why! — it  seemed  somehow 
to  disclaim  his  own  guilt.  E'o — that  line  would  not  be 
safe!  Why  not  resort  to  mere  sincerity?  It  would  be 
the  safest  shift,  surely! 

"  What — my  Lucy!  Art  thou  to  answer  for  thy  father's 
death  ?  Out  upon  it !  No — no !  Let  him  who  sows  reap. 
As  to  the  guilt  of  it — ^to  my  thinking,  the  guilt  lay  in  the 
crossing  of  swords  at  all.  That  was  none  of  my  provoca- 
tion. Share  and  share  alike,  at  least!  Was  he  not  to 
blame,  as  well  as  I  ?  At  any  rate,  dearest,  it  was  no  fault 
of  thine." 

The  sentry-scouts  that  flew,  black  across  the  Abbey 
Meadows,  to  tell  their  fellow-rooks  that  someone  came, 
may  have  been  tale-bearers,  to  the  best  of  their  cawing,  of 
how  the  man's  horse  and  the  woman's,  close  abreast,  had 
stood  awhile  so  still  the  lips  of  either  rider  met  the  other's, 


408  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

and  had  outstayed  as  much  as  might  be  of  a  half-embrace, 
balked  by  but  little  distance.  For  these  birds  see  and 
know,  and  tell  their  knowledge  to  those  that  have  ears  and 
can  hear,  though  they  waste  but  little  speech  in  the  telling 
of  it. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  relations  of  this  husband  and  wife 
had  undergone  a  change  in  that  short  two  hours'  ride. 
Such  a  change  that  John  Rackham,  hearing  their  voices, 
as  they  rode  up  to  the  stable-gate,  could  never  have 
guessed  the  strain  there  had  been  between  them  since 
their  marriage  a  month  since. 

Lucinda  remembered  well  enough  Oliver's  reference  to 
his  curious  dream.  But  she  remembered,  too  well,  the 
occasion  that  brought  him  to  speak  of  it.  She  would  say 
nothing  now  to  revive  the  recollection  of  that  moment, 
and  its  terrible  sequel. 

But  Oliver  would  not  let  the  figure  on  the  terrace  be 
forgotten.  He  questioned  all  the  women-servants,  and 
could  get  no  light  on  its  identity.  The  hour  fixed  itself — 
it  was  when  he  rode  up  to  the  gate,  or  just  before.  If  it 
was  one  of  their  own  number,  why  not  admit  it  ?  It  was 
no  contravention  of  any  law  of  his  making  to  go  on  the 
terrace.  Why  not  tell  the  truth?  But  it  was  soon 
plain  they  were  telling  the  truth.  Evidently,  none  of 
them  had  been  on  the  terrace,  or  knew  anything  of  the 
matter. 

"  You  must  have  been  mistaken,  dearest,"  said  Lucinda, 
not  unwilling  that  the  thing  should  be  forgotten. 

"  Lucy  mine,  how  could  I  be  mistaken  ?  I  saw  the 
terrace  plain — through  the  gap  in  the  yew-hedge.  One 
sees  through  plain  from  the  turn  of  the  road.  Come  and 
look  at  it."     They  were  walking,  a  day  later,  about  the 


AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  409 

gardens  and  near  paddocks  of  the  Hall,  and  it  was  a  three 
minutes'  walk  at  most  that  he  proposed. 

^'  See  now,  Lucy,"  said  he  when  they  arrived.  "  She 
came  along  limping,  just  like  that  wretched  nightmare 
dream."   .    .    . 

*'  How  could  you  be  sure  of  the  limp,  thus  far  off  ?  " 

''  H'm ! — I  might  be  unsure  about  the  limp.  And  I 
might  be  unsure  about  the  cloak.  But  the  woman  was 
there,  or  I'm  forsworn.     And  who  the  Devil  was  she  ?  " 

John  Rackham,  catechized,  was  uncommunicative. 
How  could  he  know  what  was  happening  t'other  side  of  a 
ten-foot  wall  ?  There  might  have  been  a  rare  company  of 
wenches  on  the  terrace  for  anything  he  could  naysay.  He 
suggested  that  the  household  were  untruthful — that  un- 
defined conspiracy  was  afoot,  to  mislead.  As  to  any 
woman  having  passed  through  his  door — ^well! — the  key 
was  lost.  You  could  see  that  for  yourself.  'Eo  light  was 
thrown  on  the  subject  by  Mr.  Rackham.  His  manner, 
that  of  a  reasonlessly  unwilling  witness,  was  put  down  by 
Oliver  to  constitutional  obstinacy.  Lucinda  may  have 
noticed  its  abnormal  oddity,  and  her  silence  about  it  may 
have  been  due  to  her  wish  that  the  incident  should  be 
forgotten. 

She  was  strangely  happy  during  the  next  few  days, 
seeing  how  tragic  her  life  had  been  for  so  long.  Her  love 
for  her  husband  was  a  reinstated  infatuation,  and  he  was 
cunning  enough  to  know  how  to  strengthen  his  case  for 
absolution.  Do  not  blame  her!  Think  how  glad  we  all 
are  to  make  accommodations  between  choice  and  duty. 
Do  not  grudge  her  this  little  spell  of  sunshine  and  calm 
weather.  It  was  not  for  long.  Her  father's  memory,  too, 
was  ever  with  her,  and  Oliver  was  not  slow  to  see  that  his 
interest  lay  in  affecting  a  sincere  admiration  and  regard 


410  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N0K 

for  the  man  he  had  slain.  He  was  careful  to  seem  to  keep 
this  back — to  have  it  forced  unwillingly  from  him.  Thus 
it  came  out — one  can  see  it ! — how  good  and  noble  was  this 
man's  inner  heart,  how  cruelly  he  had  been  entrapped  by 
misadventure  into  an  outward  seeming  of  an  assassin  and 
a  traitor.  It  was  craft,  but  it  was  craft  he  half-believed 
honest,  and  it  was  the  less  ignoble  seeing  the  end  it  was  to 
gain.  The  tear  was  almost  real  that  he  talked  himself 
into  shedding  over  old  Ralph,  and  the  torrent  it  provoked 
from  Lucinda  came  as  a  luxury  of  grief  to  a  heart  half- 
broken. 

Meanwhile  Susan  Trant  was  safe  in  her  haven  of  ref- 
uge. Whether  her  influence  over  the  old  groom  whose 
domicile  she  had  invaded  was  necromantic,  and  not  of  the 
sort  that  Holy  Writ  limits  and  defines,  but  does  not  for- 
bid, is  a  question  to  which  in  after  days  some  said  yes, 
some  no.  If  the  latter  alternative,  the  transgression  was 
beyond  doubt,  for  Trant  the  farmer  was  not  trampled  by 
a  bull  and  gored  to  death  till  two  years  later.  Probably 
all  who  knew  anything  of  the  witch-trial  at  Bury,  and 
John  Rackham's  deposition  against  her,  decided  that  this 
time,  too,  he  was  bewitched.  For  is  it  likely  that  a 
woman  would  intrigue  with  a  man  who  had  done  her  so 
ill  a  turn — and  he  an  old  groom  of  sixty  ?  He  was  ready, 
no  doubt;  but,  then,  do  not  some  say  no  man  is  ever  so 
old  he  will  not  soften  to  a  woman?  .  .  .  yes! — if  she 
be  not  uncomely  out  of  all  reason. 

The  denial  of  the  witchcraft  in  this  case,  and  the  ready 
acceptance  of  the  other  explanation,  may  be  due  to  a 
proneness  to  discredit  all  supernatural  causes  in  human 
affairs,  or  to  an  overstrung  belief  in  the  omnipresence  and 
omnipotence  of  Love,  the  only  name  we  have  for  one 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR  411 

passion  of  many  natures.  The  story,  as  it  reaches  us, 
seems  to  warrant  the  adoption  of  the  former  theory,  in  the 
face  of  its  intrinsic  improbability. 

Whether  she  had  some  motive,  such  as  the  discovery  of 
a  means  towards  revenge  against  Oliver — or,  quite  as 
likely,  against  Lucinda — is  another  question  that  must 
remain  unanswered.  It  is  not  absolutely  necessary  to 
suppose  any  motive,  beyond  the  desire  to  lie  safely  in 
hiding  until  she  could  show  herself  again  in  her  native 
place  without  risk  of  persecution.  But  motives  may  be 
imagined.  Could  she  have  compassed  the  death  of  either 
Lucinda  or  Oliver,  she  would  by  doing  so  have  revenged 
herself  on  both.  She  may  have  been  hatching  such 
schemes,  although  no  light  is  thrown  on  them  by  any- 
thing that  followed. 

Scheme  or  no,  declaration  would  have  served  no  pur- 
pose. John  Rackham  was  under  her  thumb,  of  course, 
but  Sir  Oliver  and  Lucinda  were,  so  far,  beyond  her  reach, 
and  free.  If  it  crossed  her  mind  to  try  her  luck  with 
Lucinda,  make  a  clean  breast  of  her  old  relations  with 
Oliver,  and  appeal  to  the  kindness  of  heart  of  a  hated  rival 
for  shelter  and  protection,  she  may  easily  have  put  the 
idea  aside  at  once  as  purely  fantastic  and  absurd.  Far 
more  likely  that  she  dreamed  of,  and  hoped  for,  some  un- 
defined revenge — some  knife  or  poison  still  beyond  her 
reach.  For  she  could  see,  herself  unseen,  enough  of  the 
life  at  the  New  Hall  to  make  sure  that  its  master  and  mis- 
tress were  on  no  unloving  terms.  He  that  visits  the  New 
Hall,  now  a  hundred  years  have  passed,  will  find  the  old 
stable  still  unchanged,  and  he  will  be  shown  what  folk  still 
call  The  Witch's  Squint,  an  opening  made  slot-wise  and 
aslant  in  the  wall  of  tlie  stable-loft,  where  Mrs.  Trant  had 
compelled  her  host,  or  rather  servant,  to  devise  a  harbour- 


412  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO]^OK 

age  for  her,  well  out  of  view  of  all  who  came  to  the  stables, 
and  only  accessible  by  a  little  winding  stair,  with  a  locked 
door  at  the  foot,  whereof  she  got  and  kept  the  key.  This 
stable  is  in  part  an  adaptation  of  the  older  building  that 
gave  place  to  the  ^N^ew  Hall  in  the  days  of  Harry  the 
Eighth. 

How  far  this  concealment  was  favoured  by  a  readiness 
of  the  young  groom  to  wink  at  a  supposed  escapade  of  Mr. 
Rackham's  we  cannot  know.  But  if  it  were  so,  such  a 
connivance  was  no  new  thing  at  the  Hall  since  its  owner 
came  to  manhood — just  a  part  of  daily  life,  and  no  more. 
Now,  this  young  man  was  the  only  person,  Rackham  ex- 
cepted, who  came  and  went  at  the  stables  without  let  or 
hindrance. 

However,  after  all,  the  story  only  needs  to  know  that 
Susan  Trant's  presence  at  the  New  Hall  did  remain  un- 
known to  the  household — why  trouble  to  throw  light  on 
the  why  and  wherefore  of  any  ascertained  fact?  Noth- 
ing came  to  light,  apparently,  until  Mrs.  Trant,  a  short 
while  before  her  death,  made  a  full  statement  of  her  own 
share  in  the  business;  one  that  left  her  motives  in  the 
dark,  perhaps,  but  that  fully  accounted  for  the  many 
things  that  called  for  explanation. 

It  is  fortunate  that  this  confession  of  Mrs.  Trant^s  has 
come  down  to  us,  clearly  written  by  Absalom  Price,  the 
secretary  of  Lord  Fotheringay,  from  whose  grandson  the 
documents  came  from  which  this  story  has  been  part  piece- 
mealed,  part  abstracted.  No  doubt  this  Price  was  the  boy 
whom  we  saw  some  pages  back,  charged  with  the  care  of 
Sir  Oliver's  horse  on  the  day  of  his  duel  with  Vincent.  It 
is  fortunate,  because  the  principal  source  of  our  informa- 
tion fails  us  at  this  point,  the  manuscript  being  abruptly 
torn  across;   and,   although  some  portions  remain,  they 


AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR  413 

would  not  alone  insure  a  completion  of  the  narrative. 
Letters  referred  to  in  it  are  also  missing. 

But  enough  would  be  left,  without  Susan's  confession, 
to  supply  material  for  conjecture.  The  surviving  frag- 
ments are  full  of  a  story  that  got  about  that  the  ghost  of 
Oliver's  mother,  the  Dowager  Lady  Raydon,  walked  on 
the  terrace  at  the  Hall  as  she  had  done  in  her  lifetime, 
identified  by  her  dress  and  her  limp.  It  was  first  current 
among  the  servants,  and  then  reached  the  ears  of  the  new 
Lady  Raydon,  who,  however,  earnestly  besought  all  who 
knew  it  to  keep  it  from  Sir  Oliver.  It  seems  to  have 
reached  him — it  was  sure  to  reach  him  somehow  in  the 
end — through  Rachel  Anstiss,  who  took  this  opportunity 
to  revenge  herself  on  Lucinda  for  her  continued  refusal  to 
employ  her  as  tirewoman. 

There  the  tale  ends,  if  it  were  not  for  the  sequel  sup- 
plied by  Absalom  Price's  manuscript. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Mrs.  Trant  seems  to  have  been  bedridden  when  Mr. 
Absalom  Price  took  down  the  following  deposition,  but 
still  in  full  possession  of  her  faculties.  He  seems  not  to 
have  added  a  word  to  it  beyond  his  note  at  the  end.  In 
another  handwriting  the  actual  date  of  her  death  is  given, 
nearly  two  years  later,  so  that  the  document  has  hardly 
the  character  of  a  death-bed  confession.  But  if  the 
truth  of  her  statements  had  been  doubted  at  the  time, 
surely  some  word  to  that  effect  would  not  have  been 
wanting. 

The  MS.  begins  abruptly,  as  though  in  answer  to  a 
question : — 

"  ^Ne'er  a  one  but  myself  knows  aught  about  it,  Master 
Price,  though  a  many  know  what  came  after.  But  for  all 
that  went  before,  and  made  the  outcome  of  it,  there's  no 
soul  living  can  tell  you  a  true  word  but  I.  And  I'll  tell 
it,  and  stop  while  you  write  it. 

"  It  was  in  May-time  that  year  the  young  Squire  came 
to  the  Manor  House  by  the  sea,  and  rode  over  to  the 
May  games  when  I  was  crowned  the  Queen.  Oh,  but  he 
was  beautiful  to  see!  They  stacked  the  hay  early  that 
year,  but  before  the  first  cart  came  to  the  ingathering,  I 
knew  him  for  the  liar  that  he  was,  and  that  all  my  good 
days  were  over.     An  old  story.  Master  Price! 

"  But  no  woman  should  ever  be  the  worse  for  him,  said 
Squire  Raydon.     His  tenant  Jonas  Trant  would  be  the 

414 


AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOK  415 

better  for  a  wife,  and  if  he  wanted  one  of  his  own  choos- 
ing, let  him  look  for  another  landlord.  Trant  got  two 
hundred  pounds  from  the  Squire's  mother,  to  close  the 
bargain.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  had  to  wed  him,  but  what 
was  he  to  me  ?  There  was  no  love  thrown  awaj  'twixt  me 
and  Jonas  Trant. 

"  But  the  Squire,  though  he  married  before  the  old 
Lady  Raydon  died,  would  come  to  Kips  Manor  still,  time 
and  again.  And  he  brought  comely  company  with  him, 
be  sure — ^young  wenches  in  want  of  a  tirewoman.  And 
when  my  father  died,  my  mother  had  the  keeping  of  the 
house,  and  I  was  always  to  come  from  the  farm  to  prank 
them  up  to  his  liking.  But  though  I  might  hate  him 
between  whiles,  he  had  but  to  beckon  me  and  say  a  sweet 
word  or  two,  and  I  was  all  his  own  again.  Oh — ay! — I 
know  'tis  shame  to  me  to  tell  it,  as  the  world  goes.    .    .    . 

"  Well ! — a  woman's  looks  are  not  for  ever,  and  the 
time  came  for  the  end  of  it  all.  But  he  did  me  a  good 
turn  that  year  when  they  were  for  burning  helpless  women 
by  the  score,  for  witching  sheep  and  cattle,  and  what  not. 
For  they  would  have  it  'twas  I  had  overlooked  neighbour 
Turle's  child,  and  stricken  it  with  the  falling  sickness. 
But  Squire  Raydon  rode  in,  and  had  me  up  behind  his 
saddle,  and  rode  me  over  to  Kips,  and  he  was  too  strong 
with  the  gentry  for  the  townsfolk  to  dare  to  say  him  nay, 
and  they  were  feared  of  the  butt-end  of  his  riding-whip 
to  boot.  But  Constance  Pratt  and  Apple  Trounce  were 
done  to  death  that  day  at  the  stake,  in  Bury  market- 
place, having  confessed  on  the  rack  their  dealings  with 
the  Evil  One. 

"  Of  which  and  suchlike  doings  I,  Master  Price,  have 
ever  been  innocent.  For  the  misleading  and  deception 
I  put  upon  John  Rackham  at  Kips  Manor  to  dupe  him 


416  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHO:^OE 

into  the  telling  of  how  Lady  Eaydon's  father  came  by  his 
death  at  the  hands  of  her  husband — but  she  was  not 
married  then,  and  was  no  better  than  I — this  deception, 
I  tell  you,  had  no  more  to  do  with  the  Evil  One  than  with 
the  Pope  of  Rome,  being  nothing  but  a  mere  side-trick 
anyone  may  play  off  on  another,  to  his  confusion  or  hers, 
being  as  may  be  man  or  woman."   ,    .    . 

What  follows  is  entirely  description  of  the  incidents 
at  Kips  Manor  already  known  to  the  reader — of  the  appre- 
hension of  the  accused  culprit  by  the  constabulary  on  her 
way  back  to  Trant's  Farm;  of  her  maltreatment  during 
detention,  pending  the  arrival  of  the  magistrates;  and  of 
her  examination  and  escape,  which  has  already  appeared 
in  the  story  as  narrative  to  Rackham.  This  brings  us 
to  the  point  of  interest,  her  arrival  at  the  New  Hall. 
She  goes  on  as  though  answering  a  question: 

*^Why  did  I  come  to  Croxley?  Where  else  should  I 
go,  with  all  the  folk  against  me  crying  out  to  burn  the 
witch! — burn  the  witch?  Of  all  that  had  any  heart  for 
me  at  all  there  was  none  but  was  afraid,  and  the  man  I 
was  married  to  turned  against  me,  and  would  have  it  I 
had  bewitched  him! 

"  How  many  folk  ever  come  to  know  what  it  feels  like 
to  be  hunted?  'Tis  a  knowledge  that  teaches  to  seek 
cover  where  one  may.  I  had  not  spent  my  life  in  the 
making  of  friends,  to  find  one  at  any  pinch.  But  I  knew 
if  I  could  get  here  I  might  find  something  better  than 
friendship — service.  I  was  hopeful  to  command  the  poor 
old  fool,  John  Rackham,  and  to  make  him  do  my  bidding. 
It  was  an  easy  task,  as  it  turned  out.  But  no  evil  spirits 
in  it,  good  lack!    There  was  neither  God  nor  Devil  in  it, 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK  417 

to  my  thinking,  but  only  Mother  I^ature,  who  will  have 
her  japes,  mark  you,  and  we  know  it.  Shall  the  trees 
that  hatch  out  young  goslings  from  their  pods  meet 
denial  for  no  better  reason  than  that  thou  and  I  have 
never  seen  one?  As  soon  say  there  be  no  eggs  with  two 
yolks,  because  your  hen  never  laid  one,  nor  mine!  'Tis 
some  such  freak,  a  mere  hap,  and  no  reason  shown,  where- 
by one  may  get  the  knack  of  ruling  another's  will,  and  why 
I  should  have  chanced  to  learn  it  I  know  not,  more  than 
another.    But  there  was  no  Devil  in  it ;  that  I  know ! 

"Yes — it  was  an  easy  task  to  get  Master  Eackham 
again  into  leading  strings.  But  he  never  knew,  look  you, 
but  what  all  he  did  was  of  his  own  free-will.  He  shel- 
tered me,  at  my  bidding,  in  the  upper  story  of  his  stable, 
where  he  was  master  and  none  could  gainsay  him,  unless 
it  were  Sir  Oliver  himself.  And  as  for  him,  why — if 
he  had  seen  me,  he  would  but  have  looked  the  other  way, 
or  said  some  word  of  jest  about  Rackham's  grey  hairs, 
and  how  he  should  patch  up  for  Heaven  before  it  was  too 
late — and  he,  poor  man,  with  never  a  choice  in  the  mat- 
ter !  So  I  was  safe  sheltered,  for  a  time ;  and  that  was  all 
my  thought,  at  first.  .  .  .     What ! — do  you  doubt  it  ?  .  .  . 

"  Well,  Master,  I  am  sure  I  had  no  other  thought.  Ex- 
cept you  will  have  it  one  thinks  the  thought  one  puts 
away.  Will  you.  Master  Absalom,  be  so  ready  to  tell  all 
the  thoughts  you  have  forbidden  to  enter  your  mind!  .  .  . 
E'ot  murder,  I  grant  you !  But  a  many  other  thoughts  a 
man  may  be  more  shamefast  in  the  telling  of.  Children 
are  not  packed  off  to  bed  to  keep  a  tale  of  murder  from 
their  ears.    .    .    . 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then,  and  make  a  clean  breast.  Down 
at  Kips  Manor  I  had  no  more  hatred  for  Mistress  Lu- 
cinda  Mauleverer,  soiled  and  spoiled  and  all  ashrink  from 


418  A-N  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOK 

her  fellow-women,  than  I  had  for  any  other  of  his  quar- 
ries. She  would  have  her  life  to  go  through,  as  I  had 
mine.  But  when  it  came  to  my  Lady  Eaydon! — to  the 
seeing  of  my  gentleman  at  her  feet!  .  .  .  then  I  grant 
you  I  did  lean  a  little  off  the  balance  of  my  mind  to 
think  of  a  pointed  knife,  swift  to  her  heart — of  the  drug 
the  gipsies  make  and  sell,  that  rots  slowly  through  the 
liver  of  the  strongest — of  any  vengeance  I  could  compass. 
For  that  October  was  not  so  chill  but  they  could  walk  in 
the  Box  Walk — so  they  call  it — in  the  midday  warmth. 
And  they  would  come  close  to  my  outlook,  so  I  could  hear 
them  plain,  at  every  turn  about. 

"  'Now  did  I  tell  you  this — ^that  when  they  first  re- 
turned, what  must  Sir  Oliver  do  but  catch  sight  of  me 
on  this  same  Box  Walk  or  the  terrace  beyond,  where  I 
had  walked  out  for  curiosity,  to  view  what  I  might  of 
the  house  before  my  lady  and  gentleman  should  return? 
He  saw  me  somehow,  from  the  road,  and  was  in  a  great 
taking  because  of  the  hooded  cloak  I  wore;  one  of  his 
mother's,  one  she  gave  me.  And  then  says  he  to  her 
something  of  a  dream  of  her,  or  her  ghost,  going  with  a 
limp.  I  had  heard  of  that  before,  through  the  door  that 
night  at  Kips,  but  only  a  very  little.  Afterwards,  John 
Kackham  told  me  'twas  the  Box  Walk.  And  Sir  Oliver — 
so  I  understood  from  him — ^was  of  the  mind  that  he  had 
seen  his  mother's  ghost. 

"  So  there  it  was !  I  can't  be  off  a  laugh  about  it  now, 
to  think  of  the  fools  I  made  them  all.  But  it  served  my 
turn  well,  for  I  had  very  little  liking  for  being  in  gaol — 
and  what  else  was  it,  if  I  was  shut  in  all  day,  mewed  up 
in  a  hayloft  above  the  horses?  I  had  the  Box  Walk  to 
myself  soon  enough,  for  the  folk  of  that  household  kept 
clear  of  a  ghost,  once  seen.     And  see  now! — suppose  I 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOE  419 

had  thought  to  pay  off  my  score  against  my  lady,  as  many 
a  like  score  has  been  paid  ere  this ! — see  the  chance  it  gave 
me.  .   .   .     But  I  would  rather  she  had  died,  than  he. 

"  It  was  all  as  one,  in  the  end.  Only  mark  you  this, 
Master  Absalom ! — I  was  not  answerable  for  the  Squire's 
death — none  can  say  it,  and  tell  truth. 

"  Ay — ay — ay !  I'm  coming  to  it.  E'ever  fear  I  shall 
die  and  disappoint  you  and  my  lady.  She  did  well  by 
me  when  I  came  out  of  hiding,  but  I  never  told  her  I 
saw  her  husband  fall,  nor  the  share  I  had  in  it.  I  made 
up  a  tale  and  she  listened  to  it  with  all  her  ears.  And 
John  Rackham,  he  bore  me  out.  Little  choice  he  had — 
John  Rackham!    .    .    . 

"  One  day  they  sat  just  without,  where  I  could  hear 
them  plain,  on  the  seat  nigh  the  door  to  the  garden.  I 
was  ready  to  catch  every  word.  And  I  would  have  heard 
it  all,  but  for  the  noises  in  the  stable-yard,  the  combing 
of  the  horses  and  their  hoof-clack  on  the  cobble-stones, 
and  young  Kenneth  singing  ^  Arthur  a'Bradley.'  'Twas 
a  Sunday  morning,  warm  like  a  spring  day,  and  there  was 
a  many  sounds  about.  But  I  had  a  shrewd  ear,  and 
caught  the  most  of  what  they  said.  First  she  was  telling 
him  about  the  ghost.  They  had  all  seen  it,  Oliver  dearest ! 
— all  but  herself.  There  was  old  Cicely,  twice ;  and  now 
she  wouldn't  come  to  this  side  of  the  house ;  and  Awdrey 
and  Maud,  and  little  JSTell  from  the  Old  Hall,  and  Rachel 
Anstiss  before  she  went  back  .  .  .  well ! — she  was  in  a 
great  rage,  dearest  Oliver  .  .  .  and  Reverstoke  the  but- 
ler— indeed,  all  but  Rackham  and  Kenneth ;  but  then  they 
never  came  hitherward  of  the  garden-door.  I^ow  was  it 
not  a  strange  story?  All  of  a  tale,  and  about  the  same 
hour — in  the  very  early  morning.  Except  Reverstoke, 
who  saw  it  coming  back  from  the  Thorpe,  near  on  to 


420  AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHONOR 

midnight.  *  Come,  say  it  was  a  strange  story,  Oliver 
dearest ! ' 

"  The  Squire  made  a  poor  hand  of  ridiculing  my  lady's 
wonderment;  for  he  had  seen  the  ghost  himself.  But  he 
could  try  to  make  his  own  seeing  of  it  into  so  much  ex- 
planation of  the  whole.  Of  course  the  first  one  to  see 
it  had  the  tale  from  him,  and  the  next  would  follow  on 
with  a  fancy  bred  of  both,  and  so  on  in  order,  each  ghost 
to  match  the  other.  But,  said  my  lady,  none  had  ever 
known  aught  of  what  he  saw.  To  which  he  answered 
pish! — one  must  have  known  it,  else  how  could  any  have 
answered  for  that  hooded  cloak,  and  the  dot-and-go-one 
limp? 

^'  But  I  could  hear  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  that  he  but 
half-believed  in  himself  as  he  said  it.  Then,  too,  he  was 
keen  to  know  a  many  particulars,  as  to  whether  one  of 
them  had  sight  of  the  ghost's  face,  or  could  hear  its  step 
on  the  gravel,  or  could  say  at  a  guess  whether  the  right  or 
left  was  the  lame  leg  that  made  the  limp;  but  all  things 
none  who  thought  the  figure  a  mere  phantasy  would  care 
to  know. 

"Then,  having  proved  to  his  liking  that  no  ghost  had 
appeared  at  all,  and  that  all  had  lied  severally,  though 
like  enough  each  thought  the  rest  spoke  true,  he  must 
needs  turn  up  new  soil,  swearing  it  was  clear  it  was  a 
trick  of  some  mischievous  jade  or  boy — ^most  like  the  lat- 
ter. Let  him  but  lay  hands  on  him,  that  was  all!  He 
would  teach  him  to  play  ghost!  But  then  and  there  I 
lost  the  hearing  of  his  words,  only  that  he  spoke  loud  and 
outvoiced  my  lady,  showing  an  exasperation  out  of  all 
measure  with  the  cause  of  it. 

"  I  was  beginning  to  weary  of  my  concealment  and  to 
let  myself  doubt  its  necessity — saying  to  myself  that  now 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISH0:N^0E  421 

surely  all  fear  of  persecution  of  the  witch  was  over — when 
the  thing  came  about  I  have  to  tell  you  of. 

"  You  remember  the  place  where  he  was  found  ?  Yes, 
the  stone  fountain  in  the  middle  of  the  Box  Walk — at 
least,  it  was  a  fountain  once,  but  now  it  has  no  water. 
That  was  where  I  saw  him. 

"  How  do  I  mean — I  saw  him  ?  Why,  'twas  thus. 
It  was  the  early  morning  when  none  was  out  of  bed,  as  I 
thought.  The  sun  had  not  risen,  or  barely — one-half  to 
be  seen  at  most,  red  in  the  ground-mist  that  goes  with  rime 
frost.  It  was  cold — ^yes!  But  the  air  was  sweet,  and  I 
had  waked  at  cock-crow,  for  the  loud  bird  was  but  two 
yards  away  from  my  bed's  head.  And  when  the  air  is 
sweet  and  still,  and  one  looks  for  the  sunbreak  any  minute, 
a  crisp  dawn  is  nothing  to  one  who  has  worked  on  a  farm. 
I  was  glad  to  quit  the  stable-smell,  and  breathe  the  scent 
of  the  fresh  frost — you  know  it? 

"  I  walked  the  length  of  the  Box  Walk  twice,  glad  to 
find  none  afoot  so  early;  for  though  'twas  sport  to  see 
them  run  from  the  ghost,  there  was  danger  in  it  .  .  . 
why! — I  had  no  mind  to  be  in  disgrace  for  the  playing 
of  a  trick  when  I  did  come  out  of  hiding,  as  to  my  think- 
ing I  was  bound  to  do  in  the  end.  So  I  was  not  sorry 
to  be  free  of  them,  and  wished  the  cold  might  keep  them 
all  abed  yet  a  little,  and  was  vext  to  hear  a  footstep  and 
a  rustle  in  the  hedge  at  the  end  of  the  walk  farthermost 
from  me  as  I  turned  to  go  back  the  third  time. 

"  But  it  was  none  of  the  household.  It  was  the  Squire 
himself,  dressed  as  he  often  would  be  if  he  came  from  his 
room  o'  nights,  in  a  silk  dressing-gown  with  a  broidery  of 
jessamine  flowers.  But  he  had  no  warm  wrap  against  the 
cold,  and  in  my  day  he  had  not  been  one  to  face  needless 
hardships. 


422  AlSr  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOISTOK 

"  Then  I  had  to  make  my  choice,  whether  to  try  to  slip 
away  from  him  down  some  side-alley;  or  to  meet  him 
boldly,  trusting  he  would  take  me  for  the  ghost  I  had 
played  off  so  successfully  on  the  silly  household.  To  do  so 
would  be  daring ;  but  I  had  run  risks  with  him  before,  and 
not  done  ill.  For  better  or  for  worse  I  chose  the  perilous 
way,  walking  straight  for  him,  adding  always  somewhat 
to  the  limp  I  had  brought  with  me  from  Bury,  that  was 
now  greatly  on  the  mend.  My  heart  was  in  my  mouth 
to  know  what  would  come  of  this. 

^^  As  I  advanced  to  him,  so  he  came  forward  to  meet  me. 
And  no  sooner  was  I  near  enough  to  get  a  plain  sight  of  his 
features,  than  I  saw  that  he  was  not  himself.  .  .  .  What 
do  I  mean.  Master  Absalom?    Why — thus:   .    .    . 

"  Have  you  never  chanced  to  meet,  or  hear  tell  of,  one 
who  would  rise  from  sleep  as  though  he  were  truly  waking, 
and  then,  still  sound  asleep  and  dreaming,  go  forth  and 
wander  hither  and  thither  with  no  form  or  purpose,  see- 
ing with  eyes  agape  without  intelligence,  choosing  his  path 
sure-footed  and  without  danger  to  himself,  so  long  as  he 
be  not  roughly  waked  by  a  foolish  interference  ?  .  .  . 
What — a  somnambulist? — is  that  the  name?  I  have 
known  such  an  one  to  be  called  a  sleep-walker.  But  what- 
ever be  the  name,  'tis  one  thing — and  that  thing  was  what 
I  meant  when  I  said  but  now  that  I  saw  that  the  Squire 
was  no  longer  himself. 

"  And  now  I  can  see  it  all  again.  I  see — ^most  strange 
to  say  ? — that  his  eyes  that  meet  mine  with  a  vacant  glare 
see  not  me,  or,  if  they  see  me,  look  beyond  and  heed  me 
not ;  and  yet  it  is  plain  he  sees,  for  he  steps  aside  to  avoid 
the  low  stone  parapet — the  fending  curb — of  the  fountain 
basin.     I  had  feared  he  would  stumble  over  it,  and  fall. 

"  Yet  he  does  not  fall !    He  walks  clear,  as  one  who  sees 


AN  AFFAIK  OF  DISHOI^TOE  423 

and  sees  plainly,  and  turns  at  the  angle  as  though  to  walk 
round  and  about  it;  then  stops.  He  is  in  my  eyesight's 
memory  still,  standing  as  one  who  seems  perplexed  with 
something  he  would  count,  and  cannot. 

"  And  will  you  believe  me  in  this.  Master  Absalom  ? 
As  I  came  nigher,  I  could  hear  his  speech,  for  he  was 
speaking.  It  was  gibberish,  but  I  noted  every  word. 
Write  them  plainly  for  my  lady.  ^  Six — six — six.  I 
counted  six — one  to  each  corner.  Solid  gold — solid  gold. 
A  mine  of  wealth!  And  John  Eackham  in  the  water! 
Could  I  tickle  him  like  a  trout,  I  might  catch  him  in  the 
gills.'  Yes — gibberish  as  it  was,  I  mind  all  that  plain, 
and  him  a-saying  of  it,  and  laughing  to  himself.  But 
those  were  the  last  words — all  but — I  ever  heard  from  the 
Squire's  lips.    .    .    . 

"  Well — see  what  we  had  been,  he  and  I,  in  the  years 
long  gone!  Women  are  so — and  you  must  even  be  pa- 
tient. Master  Absalom   .    .    . 

"  But,  mind  you,  this  was  not  the  first  I  ever  knew  of 
this  disorder  of  Sir  Oliver's.  Ask  her  ladyship  what  I 
told  her  at  Kips  Manor ;  it  was  when  she  herself  had  seen 
something  of  it,  and  spoke  of  it  to  me.  But  I  could  not 
tell  her  of  all  the  times  I  had  seen  it.  Too  much  would 
have  come  to  light  over  that. 

"  Only,  mark  you — the  most  that  I  had  seen  in  old 
years  fell  short  of  this.  To  wander  out  so  far  from  his 
sleeping-room,  all  ill-clad  and  exposed  to  the  cold  morning 
air,  unlocking  in  his  sleep — for  so  he  must  have  done — 
some  securely-closed  door!  ...  it  was  outside  all  I 
knew  of  him  at  his  worst.  So  that,  to  see  him  thus,  I  was 
as  nigh  confounded  as  I  might  have  been  had  I  come  fresh 
to  the  sight  of  it.    I  was  afeared — and  that's  the  truth ! 

"  However,  I  was  not  too  frightened  to  see  one  thing 


424  AN  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOE 

plain ;  that  I  could  pass  him,  myself  unseen,  and  get  away 
at  my  quickest  into  concealment  again.  There  was  no 
time  to  lose,  for  he  would  be  missed,  and  followed,  to  a 
certainty.  Now,  no  path  led  to  the  stable-door  except  the 
Box  Walk  itself,  unless,  indeed  I  had  risked  meeting 
someone  coming  from  the  house  to  search  for  the  wan- 
derer.    So  I  walked  straight  on. 

"  Sir  Oliver  turned  from  the  fountain  basin,  and 
walked  towards  me  as  I  came.  I  was  not  very  near  him  yet, 
but  I  could  see  that  he  seemed  laughing  to  himself,  though 
his  eyes  had  no  expression.   He  stopped,  after  a  few  paces. 

"  You  can  recollect  the  place,  Master  Absalom,  to  know 
where  and  how  we  stood  ?  .  .  .  Well — what  follows  be- 
fell thus.  I  walk  on,  mark  you,  to  pass  him  by,  he 
being  in  mid-pathway.  Of  a  sudden  I  see  his  face  change, 
as  though  he  waked.  His  eyes  are  fixed  on  mine,  and  he 
understands.  I,  too,  understand,  and  then  I  see  that  my 
only  chance  is  the  ghost.  So  I  wrap  my  hood  close  in, 
that  he  may  not  see  my  face,  and  press  straight  on.  You 
take  the  way  of  it  ? — how  it  happened   .    .    .    ? 

"  Then  his  voice  comes  in  a  cry — all  his  own  voice, 
barring  the  terror  in  it — and  his  words  come  quick: 
^  Keep  off — keep  off — keep  off — ^keep  off— keep  away ! ' 
and  then,  ^  Ah — ha — ah ! '  a  cry  with  no  word  in  it,  only 
fear!  His  hands  were  thrown  out  forward — to  stop  me 
like — as  he  stepped  back  quicker  and  quicker. 

"  Had  I  spoke  out  then  and  there,  in  my  own  voice,  I 
might  have  saved  him.  But  one  is  wise  when  all  is  over, 
and  time  comes  for  thinking.  All  my  thought  was  to  get 
by  him,  and  away  into  hiding. 

"  He  saw  me  coming,  and  went  back  and  back.  So 
far  only  as  the  parapet.  It  tripped  him,  and  he  fell 
backward  across  what  there  was  of  water,  striking  on  a 


AlSr  AFFAIE  OF  DISHONOR  425 

stone  edge-up,  some  leaving  of  the  figure  that  stood  there 
once — ^no  shape  in  it !  It  struck  well  into  his  back,  below 
the  shoulder. 

"  That  was  all  I  saw.  But  I  heard  him  cry  out : 
^  What — what  is  it  all  ?  Lucy,  where  are  you  ? '  But  it 
was  pain,  as  well  as  terror,  that  time. 

"  I  heard  them  come  from  the  house  ever  so  soon  as  I 
could  listen  through  my  window  slot.  I  heard  them  find 
him,  and  my  lady  a-crying  out :  '  Oh,  my  love — my  love ! 
They  have  killed  him.'  For  she  thought  him  murdered. 
She  was  in  a  great  taking.  But  what  rights  had  she  in 
him  that  I  had  not  ?  " 

"  This  foregoing  was  written  by  me,  Absalom  Price, 
on  July  12,  1692,  word  for  word  as  it  came  from  the  lips 
of  the  old  woman  who  was  called  Dame  Rackham,  who 
lived  with  John  Rackham,  the  caretaker  of  the  [N'ew  Hall 
at  Croxley  Thorpe,  through  all  the  years  in  which  it  stood 
untenanted,  and  afterwards  by  the  bounty  of  Sir  Ralph  at 
a  cottage  at  Blean,  where  the  man  died  a  few  years  since, 
nigh  upon  a  century  old.  I  have  done  this  at  the  desire 
of  the  Lady  Fotheringay,  Sir  Ralph's  mother,  whose  first 
husband.  Sir  Oliver,  I  saw  twice  in  my  boyhood,  now 
thirty-seven  years  since,  I  being  then  but  eleven  years  of 
age.  This  woman  Rackham  had  an  ill  name,  having  lived 
with  this  man  as  his  wife  for  two  years  before  the  death  of 
her  lawful  husband.  Farmer  Trant,  of  Warplesdon  Farm, 
near  Bury.  It  is  not  certain  that  she  and  Rackham  were 
ever  lawfully  united,  but  she  passed  as  his  wife.  She  had 
the  repute  of  being  a  witch  too,  and  it  was  said  that  she 
had  narrowly  escaped  the  stake.  This  is  confirmed  by  her 
own  narrative,  which  also  appears  to  admit  the  truth  of 
some  of  the  accusations  against  her. 


426  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

"  Until  Mistress  Trant  made  this  statement,  Sir  Oliver 
Raydon's  death  was  not  connected  with  his  habit  of  walk- 
ing in  his  sleep.  He  was  supposed  to  have  gone  out  at 
this  early  hour  of  the  morning  to  test  the  truth  of  the 
reports  that  had  got  about  that  his  mother's  ghost  walked 
every  morning  at  sunrise  in  the  place  where  his  body  was 
found,  just  dead.  His  scanty  clothing  on  so  cold  a  morn- 
ing was  held  by  some  to  call  this  in  question;  otherwise 
the  thing  was  not  improbable  in  itself.  The  cause  of  his 
death  was  always  believed  to  be  the  same  as  what  the  old 
woman's  story  gives  us;  that  is,  that  he  stumbled  over 
the  parapet  and  fell,  striking  his  body  on  a  stone,  no  great 
distance  from  the  wound  late  healed,  which  broke  open 
internally,  injuring  some  vital  part.  There  was  profuse 
haemorrhage  from  the  mouth,  none  from  the  wound,  which 
was  thought  by  many  to  account  for  the  suddenness  of  his 
death. 

"  The  only  person  present  but  myself  when  Mrs.  Trant 
made  this  deposition  was  my  wife,  whose  name  is  here 
appended  beside  my  own  as  a  witness  to  its  truth.  Her 
attestation  is  also  to  that  of  the  narrative  itself  in  a 
measure,  as  she  was  herself  among  the  first  to  find  the 
body  of  Sir  Oliver,  being  in  the  employment  of  the  family, 
though  a  very  young  girl.  She  remembers  also  much  of 
the  story  told  at  the  time  better  than  I  do  myself,  being 
over  three  years  my  senior. 

(Signed)     "  Absalom  Price. 

"  Eleanor  Price,  wife  of  the  above," 


THE   END 


WILUAM  DE  MORGAN'S  JOSEPH  VANCE 

A  touching  story,  yet  full  of  humor,  of  life-long  love  and 
heroic  sacrifice.  While  the  scene  is  mostly  in  and  near  the 
London  of  the  fifties,  there  are  some  telling  glimpses  of 
Italy,  where  the  author  lives  much  of  the  time  ($1.75). 

"The  book  of  the  last  decade;  the  best  thing  in  fiction  since  Mr. 
Meredith  and  Mr.  Hardjr;  must  take  its  place  as  the  first  great  English 
novel  that  has  appeared  in  the  twentieth  century." — Lewis  Melville  in 
New   York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  If  the  reader  likes  both  '  David  Copperfield  '  and  '  Peter  Ibbetson,* 
he  can  find  the  two  books  in  this  one." — The  Independent. 

WILUAM  DE  MORGAN'S  AUCE-FOR-SHORT 

This  might  paradoxically  be  called  a  genial  ghost-and- 
murder  story,  yet  humor  and  humanity  again  dominate,  and 
the  most  striking  element  is  the  touching  love  story  of  an 
unsuccessful  man.  The  reappearance  in  Nineteenth  Century 
London  of  the  long-buried  past,  and  a  remarkable  case  of 
suspended  memory,  give  the  dramatic  background  ($1.75). 

"  Really  worth  reading  and  praising  .  .  .  will  be  hailed  as  a  master- 
piece. If  any  writer  of  the  present  era  is  read  a  half  century  hence, 
a  quarter  century,  or  even  a  decade,  that  writer  is  William  De 
Morgan." — Boston   Transcript. 

"  It  is  the  Victorian  age  itself  that  speaks  in  those  rich,  interesting, 
over-crowded  books.  .  .  .  Will  be  remembered  as  Dickens*  novels  are 
remembered." — Springfield  Republican. 

WILLIAM  DE  MORGAN'S  SOMEHOW  GOOD 

The  purpose  and  feeling  of  this  novel  are  intense,  yet  it  is 
all  mellowed  by  humor,  and  it  contains  perhaps  the  author's 
freshest  and  most  sympathetic  story  of  young  love.  Through- 
out its  pages  the  "  God  be  praised  evil  has  turned  to  good  " 
of  the  old  Major  rings  like  a  trumpet  call  of  hope.  This 
story  of  to-day  tells  of  a  triumph  of  courage  and  devotion 
($1.75). 

"  A  book  as  sound,  as  sweet,  as  wholesome,  as  wise,  as  any  in  the 
range  of  fiction." — The  Nation. 

"  Our  older  novelists  (Dickens  and  Thackeray)  will  have  to  look  to 
their  laurels,  for  the  new  one  is  fast  proving  himself  their  equal.  A 
higher  quality  of  enjoyment  than  is  derivable  from  the  work  of  any 
other  novelist  now  living  and  active  in  either  England  or  America." — 
The  Dial. 

I        HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

I  34  WEST  3 3D  STREET  (vii' 10)  NEW  YORK 


WILUAM  DE  MORGAN'S  IT  NEVER  CAN  HAPPEN  AGAIN 

This  novel  turns  on  a  strange  marital  complication,  and  is 
notable  for  two  remarkable  women  characters,  the  pathetic 
girl  Lizarann  and  the  beautiful  Judith  Arkroyd,  with  her 
stage  ambitions.  Lizarann's  father,  Blind  Jim,  is  very  ap- 
pealingly  drawn,  and  shows  ra  ;  courage  and  devotion  despite 
cruel  handicaps.  There  are  strong  dramatic  episodes,  and 
the  author's  inevitable  humor  and  optimism  ($1.75). 

"  De  Morgan  at  his  very  best,  and  how  much  better  his  best  is 
than  the  work  of  any  novelist  of  the  past  thirty  years." — Independent. 

"  There  has  been  nothing  at  all  like  it  in  our  day.  The  best  of 
our  contemporary  novelists  ...  do  not  so  come  home  to  our  business 
and  our  bosoms  .  .  .  his  method  ...  is  very  different  in  most 
important  respects  from  that  of  Dickens.  He  is  far  less  the  showman, 
the  dashing  prestidigitator  .  .  .  more  like  Thackeray  .  .  .  precisely 
what  the  most  '  modern  '  novelists  are  striving  for — for  the  most  part 
in  vain  .  .  .  most  enchanting  .  .  .  infinitely  lovable  and  pathetic." — 
The  Nation. 

"  Another  long  delightful  voyage  with  the  best  English  company  .  .  , 
from  Dukes  to  blind  beggars  .  .  .  you  could  make  out  a  very  good 
case  for  handsome  Judith  Arkroyd  as  an  up-to-date  Ethel  Newcome 
.  .  .  the  stuff  that  tears  in  hardened  and  careless  hearts  are  made 
of  .  .  .  singularly  perceiving,  mellow,  wise,  charitable,  humorous 
...  a  plot  as  well  defined  as  if  it  were  a  French  farce." — The  Times 
Saturday  Review. 

"  The  characters  of  Blind  Jim  and  Lizarann  are  wonderful — worthy 
of  Dickens  at  his  best." — Professor  William  Lyon  Phelps,  of  Yale, 
author  of  "  Essays  on  Modern  Novelists." 


WILUAM  DE  MORGAN'S  AN  AFFAIR  OF  DISHONOR 

A  dramatic  story  of  England  in  the  time  of  the  Restoration. 
It  commences  with  a  fatal  duel,  and  shows  a  new  phase  of  its 
remarkable  author.  The  movement  is  fairly  rapid,  and  the 
narrative  absorbing,  with  occasional  glints  of  humor  ($1.75). 


♦♦«  A  thirty-two  page  illustrated  leaflet  about  Mr.   De  Morgan,   with 
complete  reviews  of  his  first  four  books,  sent  on  request. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


GEORGE  GARY  EGGLESTON'S 

RECOLLECTIONS   OF  A  VARIED  LIFE 

By  the  author  of  "  A  Rebel's  Recollections,"  "  Captain  Sam," 
''A  Daughter  of  the  South,"  "Long  Knives,"  etc.  With 
portrait.  344  pp.+S  pp.  index.  8vo.  $2.75  net;  by  mail, 
$2.92. 

These  reminiscences  of  the  veteran  author  and  editor  are 
rich  in  fields  so  wide  apart  as  the  experiences  of  a  Hoosier 
schoolmaster  (the  basis  for  the  well-known  story),  a  young 
man's  life  in  Virginia  before  the  War,  a  Confederate  soldier, 
a  veteran  in  the  literary  life  of  New  York. 

"Jeb  Stuart,"  "  Fitz  Lee,"  Beauregard,  Grant,  Frank  R. 
Stockton,  John  Hay,  Stedman,  Bryant,  Parke  Godwin,  "  Mark 
Twain,"  Gosse,  Pulitzer,  Laffan,  and  Schurz,  are  among  the 
many  who  appear. 

The  author  was  born  at  Vevay,  Indiana,  1839,  practiced  law 
in  Virginia;  served  in  the  Confederate  Army,  was  Literary 
Editor  of  the  New  York  Evening  Post  for  6  years,  Editor  of 
the  Commercial  Advertiser  (now  the  Globe)  ;  and  for  11  years 
Editorial  writer  for  The  World. 

"  There  are  few  American  men  of  letters  whose  reminiscences 
would  seem  to  promise  more.  The  man's  experiences  cover  so  wide  a 
period;  he  has  had  such  exceptional  opportunities  of  seeing  interesting 
men  and  events  at  first  hand." — Bookman. 

"  Has  approached  the  emergencies  of  life  with  courage  and  relish 
.  .  .  qualities  that  make  for  readableness  .  .  .  this  autobiography, 
despite  a  tendency  to  anecdotal  divagations  ...  is  thoroughly  en- 
tertaining."— Nation. 

"  Told  with  the  convincing  force  of  actual  experience  .  .  ,  has  all 
the  excellences,  and  not  many  of  the  defects,  of  the  trained  journalist 
,  .  .  tells  us  rapidly  and  effectively  what  sort  of  a  life  he  has  led 
.    .    .    full   of  interest." — Dial. 

"  Its  cozily  intimate  quality.  .  .  .  One  of  those  books  which  the 
reviewer  begins  to  mark  appreciatively  for  quotation,  only  to  discover 
ere  long  that  he  cannot  possibly  find  room  for  half  the  passages 
selected." — New   York  Tribune. 

"  Very  pleasant  are  these  reviews  of  the  days  that  are  gone." — Sun. 

"  He  has  much  to  say  and  says  it  graphically." — Times-Review. 

"  The  most  charming  and  useful  of  his  many  books  .  .  .  sym- 
pathetic, kindly,  humorous,  and  confidential  talk  .  .  .  laughable  anec- 
dotes ...  a  keen  observer's  and  critic's  comment  on  more  than  half 
a  century  of  American  development." — Hartford  Courant. 

"  Seldom  does  one  come  upon  so  companionable  a  volume  of 
reminiscences  .  .  .  the  author  has  good  materials  galore  and  presents 
them  with  so  kindly  a  humor  that  one  never  wearies  of  his  chatty 
history  .  .  .  the  whole  volume  is  genial  in  spirit  and  eminently  read- 
able."— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  Deserves  to  rank  high  in  the  literature  of  American  autobiography, 
even  though  that  literature  boasts  the  masterpiece  of  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin."— San  Francisco  Argonaut. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


JANE  G.  PERKINS'S 
THE  UFE  OF  THE  HONOURABLE  MRS.  NORTON 

With  portraits,  8vo.    $3.50  net ;  by  mail,  $3.68. 

Mrs.  Norton  was  the  great  Sheridan's  grand-daughter, 
beautiful  and  witty,  the  author  of  novels,  poems  and  songs, 
contesting  contemporary  popularity  with  Mrs.  Browning ;  her 
influence  was  potent  in  politics  ;  Meredith  undoubtedly  had 
her  in  mind  when  he  drew  "  Diana  of  the  Crossways." 

"  Reads  like  a  novel  .  .  .  seems  like  the  page  from  an  old  romance,  and 
Miss  Perkins  has  preserved  all  its  romantic  charm.  .  .  .  Miss  Perkins  has 
let  letters,  and  letters  unusually  interesting,  tell  much  of  the  story.  ...  In- 
deed her  biography  has  all  the  sustained  interest  of  the  novel,  almost  the 
irresistible  march  of  fate  of  the  Greek  drama.  It  is  eminently  reliable."— 
Boston  Transcript. 

"  Brilliant,  beautiful,  unhappy,  vehement  Caroline  Norton.  .  .  .  Her 
story  is  told  here  with  sympathy,  but  yet  fairly  enough  .  .  .  interesting 
glimpses  ...  of  the  many  men  and  women  of  note  with  whom  Mrs.  Norton 
was  brought  into  more  or  less  intimate  association."— Providence  Journal. 

"  The  generous  space  allowed  her  to  tell  her  'own  story  in  the  form  of 
intimate  letters  is  a  striking  and  admirable  feature  of  the  book."— 7%«  Dial. 

"  She  was  an  uncommonly  interesting  personage,  and  the  memoir  .  .  . 
has  no  dull  spots  and  speedily  wins  its  way  to  a  welcome."— New  York 
Tribune. 

"  So  exceptional  and  vivid  a  personality  ...  of  unusual  quality  .  .  .  very 
well  written."— 7%«  Outlook. 


YUNG   WING'S  MY  UFE  IN  CHINA  AND  AMERICA 

With  portrait,  8vo.     $2.50  net ;  by  mail,  $2.65. 

The  author's  account  of  his  early  life  in  China,  his  education  at 
Yale,  where  he  graduated  in  1854  (LL.D.,  1876),  his  return 
to  China  and  adventures  during  the  Taiping  rebellion,  his 
intimate  association  withTsang  Kwoh  Fan  and  Li  Hung  Chang, 
and  finally  his  great  work  for  the  *  *  Chinese  Educational  Move- 
ment "  furnish  highly  interesting  and  good  reading. 

"  It  is  his  native  land  that  is  always  the  great  heroic  character  on  the  stage 
his  mind  surveys;  and  his  mental  grasp  is  as  wide  as  his  domiciliation.  A 
great  life  of  action  and  reflection  and  the  experiences  of  two  hemispheres. 
It  is  not  so  much  a  knowledge  of  isolated  facts  that  is  to  be  got  from  the 
book  as  an  understanding  of  the  character  of  the  Chinese  race.  ^—Hartford 
Courant. 

"  There  is 'not  a  dull  line  in  this  simply  told  but  fascinating  biography."— 
Literary  Digest. 

*'  He  has  given  Occidental  readers  an  opportunity  to  behold  the  machinery 
of  Chinese  custom  and  the  substance  01  Chinese  character  in  action.  No 
foreigner  could  possibly  have  written  a  work  so  instructive,  and  no  un- 
travelled  native  could  have  made  it  intelligible  to  the  West  ...  a  most  in- 
teresting story  both  in  the  telling  and  in  the  acting.  .  .  .  Mr.  Yung  presents 
each  of  his  readers  with  a  fragment  of  China  herself."— Ziz/z«^  Ase. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


BEULAH  MARIE  DIX'S 

ALLISON'S  LAD  AND  OTHER  MARTIAL 
INTERLUDES 

By  the  co-author  of  the  play,  "The  Road  to  Yesterday,"  and 
author  of  the  novels,  "The  Making  of  Christopher  Ferring- 
ham,"  "Blount  of  Breckenlow,"  etc.     T2mo.     $1.35  net;  by 
mail,  $1.45- 
Allison's  Lad,  The  Hundredth  Trick,  The  Weakest  Link, 

The  Snare  and  the  Fowler,  The  Captain  of  the  Gate,  The 

Dark  of  the  Dawn. 

These  one-act  plays,  despite  their  impressiveness,  are  per- 
fectly practicable  for  performance  by  clever  amateurs;  at  the 
same  time  they  make  decidedly  interesting  reading. 

Six  stirring  war  episodes.  Five  of  them  occur  at  night, 
and  most  of  them  in  the  dread  pause  before  some  mighty 
conflict.  Three  are  placed  in  Cromwellian  days  (two  in  Ire- 
land and  one  in  England),  one  is  at  the  close  of  the  French 
Revolution,  another  at  the  time  of  the  Hundred  Years'  War, 
and  the  last  during  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  The  author  has 
most  ingeniously  managed  to  give  the  feeling  of  big  events, 
though  employing  but  few  players.  The  emotional  grip  is 
strong,  even  tragic. 

Courage,  vengeance,  devotion,  and  tenderness  to  the  weak, 
are  among  the  emotions  effectively  displayed. 

"  The  technical  mastery  of  Miss  Dix  is  great,  but  her  Spiritual  mastery 
is  greater.  For  this  book  lives  in  memorjr,  and  the  spirit  of  its 
teachings  is.  in  a  most  intimate  sense,  the  spirit  of  its  teacher.  .  .  . 
Noble  passion  holding  the  balance  between  life  and  death  is  the  motif 
sharply  outlined  and  vigorously  portrayed.  In  each  interlude  the  author 
has  seized  upon  _  a  vital  situation  and  has  massed  all  her  forces  so  as 
to  enhance  its  significance." — Boston  Transcript.  (Entire  notice  on  ap- 
plication to  the  publishers.) 

^ "  Highly  dramatic  episodes,   treated  with   skill  and  art   ...   a  high 
pitch  of  emotion." — New  York  Sun. 

"  Complete  and  intense  tragedies  well  plotted  and  well  sustained,  in 
dignified  dialogue  of  persons  of  the  drama  distinctly  differentiated."— 
Hartford  Courant. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  say,  without  reservation,  that  the  half  dozen 
plays  before  us  are  finely  true,  strong,  telling  examples  of  dramatic 
art.  .  .  .  Sure  to  find  their  way  speedily  to  the  stage,  justifying 
themselves  there,  even  as  they  justify  themselves  at  a  reading  as  pieces 
of  literature." — The  Bellman. 


HENRY     HOLT    AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


FOR    TRAVELERS 

IN  AND  OUT  OF  FLORENCE 

By  Max  Vernon.  With  48  full-page  illustrations  from 
photographs  and  about  100  drawings  by  Maud  Lanktree. 
370  pp.    With  index.     8vo.     $2.50  net;  by  mail  $2,67. 

A  reliable  tho  delightfully  informal  book  liable  to  prove  as  attractive 
to  fireside  travelers  as  to  those  who  actually  cross  the  sea.  Besides 
covering  Florence's  art  treasures  and  the  sights  of  interest  to  tourists, 
including  the  delightful  excursions  to  Vallambrosa,  and  over  the  Con- 
suma  Pass,  the  Casentino,  Prato,  Pit  oja,  Lucca  and  Pisa,  the  author 
also  treats  of  House-hunting,  Servants,  Shopping,  etc. 

"  His  accounts  of  his  hunting  for  a  home  and  of  the  ways  of  the  people 
are  full  of  sympathy  and  liking  for  things  Italian.  Equally  enjoyable 
are  his  descriptions  later  of  street  scenes  and  out-of-door  life.  .  .  .  He  is 
a  pleasant  companion  in  '  doing  '  Florence.  .  .  .  The  selection  of  photo- 
graphs is  excellent  and  the  drawings  by  Maud  Lanktree  are  charming. 
The  book  will  help  the  traveler  and  will  please  and  instruct  the  stay-at- 
home."— iWzu  Vor^  Sun. 

FRENCH  CATHEDRALS   AND  CHATEAUX 

By  Clara  Crawford  Perkins.  Two  volumes,  with  photo- 
gravure frontispieces  and  62  half-tone  plates.  Svo.  $5.00  net, 
boxed,  carriage  extra. 

"A  most  valuable  work.  A  more  complete  study  of  the  architecture, 
or  clever  scheme  of  giving  lucid  pictures  of  its  history  could  not  be 
desired."— r^^  Reader. 

"Of  genuine  artistic  value.    Notable  for  its  excellent  arrangement." 

—Boston  Herald. 

THE  BUILDERS  OF  SPAIN 

Two  volumes,  with  two  photogravure  frontispieces  and  62 
half-tone  plates.     Svo.    $5.00  net,  boxed,  carriage  extra. 

"A  very  delightful  \>oo\i*^— Baltimore  Sun. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure  to  take  up  a  beautiful  book'and  find  that  the  subject- 
matter  is  quite  as  satisfactory  as  the  artistic  illustrations,  the  rich 
covers  and  the  clear  ^x'\n\.."— Springfield  Republican. 

POEMS  FOR  TRAVELERS 

Compiled  by  Mary  R.J.  DuBois.  i6mo.  Cloth,  $1.50; 
leather,  $2.50. 

THE  POETIC  OLD-WORLD 
THE  POETIC  NEW- WORLD 

Compiled  by  Miss  L.  H.  Humphrey.  i6mo.  Cloth,  $1.50 
each  ;  leather,  $2.50  each. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


LEADING  AMERICANS 

Edited  by  W.  P.  Trent.    Large  i2mo.    With  portraits. 
Each  $1.75,  by  mail  $1.90. 

LEADING  AMERICAN  SOLDIERS 

By  R.  M.  Johnston,  Lecturer  in  Harvard  University,  Au- 
thor of  "'Napoleon,"  etc. 
Washington,  Greene,  Taylor,  Scott,  Andrew  Jackson,  Grant, 
Sherman,    Sheridan,    McClellan,    Meade,    Lee,    "  Stonewall  " 
Jackson,  Joseph  E.  Johnston. 

"  Very  interesting  .  .  .  much  sound  originality  of  treatment,  and 
the  style  is  very  clear." — Springfield  Repubhcan. 

LEADING  AMERICAN  NOVELISTS 

By  Professor  John  Erskine  of  Columbia. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown,  Cooper,  Simms,  Hawthorne,  Mrs, 
Stowe,  and  Bret  Harte. 

"  He  makes  his  study  of  these  novelists  all  the  more  striking  because 
of  their  contrasts  of  style  and  their  varied  purpose.  .  .  .  Cooper  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  Hawthorne  ...  of  both  he  gives  us  an  exceedingly  graphic 
picture,  showing  the  men  both  through  their  life  and  their  works.  He 
is  especially  apt  at  a  vivid  characterization  of  them  as  they  appeared 
in  the  eyes  of  their  contemporaries  .  .  .  well  worth  any  amount  of 
time  we  may  care  to  spend  upon  them." — Boston   Transcript. 

LEADING  AMERICAN  ESSAYISTS 

By  William  Morton  Payne,  Associate  Editor  of  The  Dial, 
A    General    Introduction    dealing    with    essay    writing    in 

America,  and  biographies  of  Irving,  Emerson,  Thoreau,  and 

George  William  Curtis. 

"  It  is  necessary  to  know  only  the  name  of  the  author  of  this  work 

to  be  assured  of  its  literary  excellence." — Literary  Digest. 

LEADING  AMERICAN  MEN  OF  SCIENCE 

Edited   by   President   David   Starr  Jordan. 

Count  Rumford,  by  Edwin  E.  Slosson;  Alexander  Wilson  and 
Audubon,  by  Witmer  Stone;  Silliman,  by  Daniel  Coit  Gilman;  Joseph 
Henry,  by  Simon  Newcomb;  Louis  Agassiz,  by  Charles  Frederick 
Holder;  Jeffries  Wyman,  by  Burt  C.  Wilder;  Asa  Gray,  by  John  M. 
Coulter;  James  Dwight  Dana,  by  William  North  Rice;  Spencer 
FuLLERTON  Baird,  by  Holder;  Marsh,  by  Geo,  Bird  Grinnell;  Edward 
Drinker  Cope,  by  Marcus  Benjamin;  Josiah  Willard  Gibbs,  by  Edwin 
E.  Slosson;  Simon  Newcomb,  by  Marcus  Benjamin;  George  Brown 
GooDE,  by  David  Starr  Jordan;  Henry  Augustus  Rowland,  by  Ira 
Remsen;  William  Keith   Brooks,  by  E.  A.  Andrews. 

Other  Volumes  contracted  for,  covering  Lawyers,  Poets, 
Statesmen,  Editors,  Explorers,  etc.     Leaflet  on  application. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (vii  'lo)  NEW  YORK 


FOR   YOUNG    FOLKS 


"VAMBA'S'*  THE  PRINCE  AND  HIS  ANTS 

By  LuiGi  Bertelli.    Translated  by  Sarah  F.  Woodruff,  with 

introduction  by  Prof.  Vernon  L.   Kellogg.     With   eight 

colored  plates  and  many  text  illustrations.     i2mo.     $1.35 

net;  by  mail,  $1.48. 

The   story  of  a  boy  who   became  an   ant  and  had  many 

thrilling  adventures  with  other  ants,  and  wasps  and  bees,  and 

of  his  sister,  who  became  a  butterfly. 

"  Very    delightful   .    .    .  adventures    many    and    most    exciting.    .    .    . 

Good,   sound  entomology,  but  no  child  reading  the  book  would  suspect 

that    he    was    acquiring    scientific   knowledge.      For    the    tale    is   told    so 

quaintly  and  delightfully  that  it  has  all  the  charm  of  a  fairy  story." — 

New  York  Times  Review. 

"  Youngsters   .    .    .   charming  and  natural.     The  reader  will  be  glad 

to  make  the  acquaintance  of  Gigino,  the  luckless  little  hero  of  Vamba's 

*  Ciondolino '    .    .    .an    interesting    and    amusing    book    with    excellent 

pictures." — New  York  Sun. 


CONSTANCE  D'ARCY  MACKAY'S 
THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  HEART 

Ten  well-written  one-act  plays  to  be  acted  by  children.  A 
satisfactory  book  to  fill  a  real  need.    $1.10  net;  by  mail,  $1.15. 

"  Each  play  contains  a  distinct  lesson,  whether  of  courage,  gentle 
manners,  or  contentment.  The  settings  are  simple  and  the  costumes 
within  the  compass  of  the  schoolroom.  Full  directions  for  costumes, 
scene  setting,  and  dramatic  action  are  given  with  each  play.  All  of 
them  have  stood  the  test  of  actual  production." — Preface. 

CONTENTS: 

"The  House  of  the  Heart"  (Morality  Play) -"The  Gooseherd  and  the 
Goblin"  (Comedy,  suitable  for  June  exercises)— "The  Enchanted  Garden" 
(Flower  Play,  suitable  for  June  exercises)— "Nimble  Wit  and  Fingerkin" 
(Industrial  Play)— "A  Little  Pilgrim's  Progress"  (Morality  Play,  suitable 
for  Thanksgiving)  —  "A  Pageant  of  Hours"  (To  be  given  Out  of  Doors)  — 
"On  Christmas  Eve"— "The  Elf  Child  "—"  The  Princess  and  the  Pixies" 
—"The  Christmas  Guest"  (Miracle  Play). 

"  An   addition   to  child   drama  which   has  been   sorely  needed." 

—Boston  Transcript, 

»••  If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address  the  publishers  will  send, 
from  time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND      COMPANY 

34  WEST  3 3D  STREET  NEW  YORK 


MARY  BLAIR  BEEBE'S  and  C.  WILUAM  BEEBE'S 
OUR  SEARCH  FOR  A  WILDERNESS 

Mr.  Beebe  is  the  Curator  of  Birds  in  New  York  Zoological 
Park,  and  author  of  "  The  Bird ;  Its  Form  and  Function." 
With  165  illustrations.     $2.75  net;  by  mail,  $2.92. 
Trips  into  tropical  wildernesses  of  Venezuela  and  British  Guiana. 

"  Fascinating  ...  it  will  be  very  difficult  for  anyone  to  compete 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beebe  in  anything  except  the  description  of  purely 
superficial  conditions  .  .  .  for  bird  lovers  in  particular  .  .  .  reveals 
people  and  customs  and  adventures  in  a  thoroughly  satisfying  as  well 
as  delightfully  clever  manner.  .  .  .  The  amiable  captain  was  full  of 
legend  and  superstition  .  .  .  the  mate  enthralled  the  crew  with  dra- 
matic and  sentimental  tales." — New  York  Sun. 

"  No  reader  who  appreciates  the  delightful  surprises  of  tropical  ex- 
ploration and  the  charm  that  lies  in  the  study  of  wild  nature  can  turn 
these  pages  with  indifference.  The  excitement  of  interest  ...  is 
contagious;  the  thrill  with  which  they  happen  upon  strange  and  rare 
animal  or  plant  life  is  communicable.  They  tell  their  story  very  well, 
with  simplicity  and  often  with  humor  ...  at  every  turn  something 
amusing  happened." — New   York  Tribune. 

"  The  authors  carry  something  of  the  brilliant  coloring  'of  their  tropical 
surroundings  into  their  narrative  .  .  .  will  appeal  to  the  unscientific  because 
of  their  newness  and  to  the  scientific  because  of  their  fidelity  and  in- 
structiveness." 

BEEBE'S  THE  BIRD;  ITS  FORM  AND  FUNCTION 

By  C.  William  Beebe,  Curator  of  Birds  in  the  New  York 
Zoological  Park,  American  Nature  Series,  with  frontis- 
piece in  color  and  370  illustrations  from  photographs. 
496  pp.    8vo.    $3.50  net;  by  mail,  $3.80. 

The  story  of  the  evolution  of  birds  unlocked  from  technical 
language.  The  treatment  is  popular,  and  the  volume  is 
intended  for  all  nature-lovers  and  students,  and  as  an  ac- 
companiment to  the  identification  book. 

"  It  is  no  little  compliment  to  Mr.  Beebe's  book  to  say  that  among 
American  works  it  invites  comparison  only  with  Part  II  of  the  late  Dr. 
Coues's  classic  *  Key  to  North  American  Birds  '  (published  separately  only 
in  England),  and  the  present  volume  is  the  first  in  this  country  to  be  devoted 
wholly  to  a  study  of  the  relations  existing  between  a  bird's  structure  and  its 
habits. 

"  So  many  of  the  370  odd  illustrations  were  made  by  the  author 
from  living  birds,  either  in  nature  or  in  captivity,  that  they  constitute 
an  actual  addition  to  our  sources  of  information." — The  Nation. 

"  Told  in  simple  language,  by  a  man  who  has  made  bird  life  the 
study  of  a  lifetime.  ...  A  new  departure  in  the  literature  of  bird 
study." — Review  of  Reviews. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

34  WEST  3 3D  STREET  NEW  YORK 


LATEST  VOLUMES  IN 

THE   AMERICAN   NATURE   SERIES 

(Prospectus  of  entire  Scries  on  request) 

THE  CARE  OF  TREES  IN  LAWN,  STREET,  AND  PARK 

By  B.  E.  Fernow,  of  the  University  of  Toronto.  Illustrated. 
$2.00  net. 

Written  for  amateurs  by  a  forester,  this  volume  furnishes  information 
such  as  the  owner  of  trees  or  the  "tree  warden"  may  need. 

"  Truly  admirable  .  .  .  eminently  practical.  .  .  .  His  list  of  trees  desirable 
for  shade  and  ornament  is  a  full  and  most  valuable  one,  and  the  illustrations 
are  enlightening."— A^.  V.  Tribune. 

HARDY  PLANTS  FOR  COTTAGE  GARDENS 

By  Helen  R.  Albee,  Author  of  "  Mountain  Playmates." 
Illustrated.     i2mo. 

A  personal  and  very  readable  record,  illustrated  by  photographs,  of  the 
author's  success  in  assembling  within  a  limited  area,  the  choice  varieties  of 
hardy  shrubs,  annuals,  and  perennials,  so  arranged  as  to  give  a  succession  of 
bloom  of  pure  color  in  each  bed.  With  a  list  giving  manner  of  growth, 
height,  time  of  blooming,  exact  color,  special  requirements  of  soil  and 
moisture,  "  easy  ways"  taught  by  experience,  and  many  et  ceteras  of  vital 
importance. 

SHELL-FISH  INDUSTRIES  ^^^f'^wmiam^cXge. 

Illustrated  by  half-tones  and  original  drawings.    $1.75  net. 

Covers  classification,  propagation,  and  distribution. 

"  Interests  all  classes,  the  biologist,  the  oyster  grower,  the  trader  and  the 
eater  of  oysters.  The  science  is  accurate,  and  in  some  points  new ;  it  is 
made  perfectly  comprehensible  and  the  w>'olebook  is  very  readable."— A^ez«/ 
York  Sun. 

FISH  STORIES:    Alleged  and   Experienced,  with   a  Little 
History,  Natural  and  Unnatural 

By  Charles  F.  Holder,  Author  of  "  The  Log  of  a  Sea 
Angler,"  etc.,  and  David  Starr  Jordan,  Author  of  "  A  Guide 
to  the  Study  of  Fishes,"  etc.  With  colored  plates  and  many 
illustrations  from  photographs.    $1.75  net. 

"A  delightful  miscellany,  telling  about  fish  of  the  strangest  kind,  with 
scientific  description  melting  into  accounts  of  personal  adventure.  Nearly 
everything  that  is  entertaining  in  the  fish  world  is  touched  upon  and  science 
and  fishing  are  made  very  readable."- iVl?z</  York  Sun. 

INSECT  STORIES  By  Vernon  L.  Kellogg. 

Illustrated,  $1.50  net. 

Strange,  true  stories,  primarily  for  children,  but  certainly  for  those  grown- 
ups who  like  to  read  discriminatingly  to  their  children. 

The  author  is  among  a  few  scientific  writers  of  distinction  who  can 
erest  the  popular  mind.    No 
delight  and  ^TOht.."— The  Nation. 


interest  the  popular  mind.    No  intelligent  youth  can  fail  to  read  it  with 
)fit."-: 


HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


McPHERSON'S  TRANSPORTATION  IN  EUROPE 

By  Logan  G.  McPherson,  lecturer  on  transportation  at  Johns 
Hopkins.  i2mo.  $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.63. 
A  rearrangement  and  amplification  of  the  author's  re- 
ports to  the  National  Waterways  Commission,  which  were 
critically  scrutinized  by  high  European  officials,  when  he 
was  in  Europe.  It  covers  The  Development  of  both  Water- 
ways and  Railways,  Railway  Passenger  and  Freight  Traffic, 
The  International  Rail  Traffic  of  Europe,  and  The  Effects  of 
Governmental  Administration. 

McPHERSON'S  RAILROAD  FREIGHT  RATES 

In  Their  Relation  to  the  Industry  and  Commerce  of  the 
United  States.  With  maps,  tables,  and  a  full  index.  8vo. 
$2.25  net;   by  mail,  $2.42. 

Not  only  valuable  to  anyone  having  to  do  with  railroad 
freight  traffic  either  as  a  railroad  official  or  as  a  shipper,  but 
also  a  fascinating  exposition  for  the  general  reader. 

"  An  exceedingly  important  book.  .  .  .  Not  only  the  best  existing 
account,  but  it  is  easily  the  best  book  on  American  railway  traffic. 
.  .  .  We  have  little  hesitation  in  expressing  the  opinion  that  it  will 
stand  as  the  standard  reference  work  for  a  good  many  years,  and 
from  the  standpoint  of  public  policy  we  are  exceedingly  glad  that 
the  book  has  been  written.  The  country  would  be  better  governed 
if  the  legislator,  state  and  national,  had  to  pass  an  examination  upon 
it  before  taking  his  oath  of  office." — Railroad  Age  Gazette. 

McPHERSON'S  THE  WORKING  OF  THE  RAILROADS 

i2mo.    $1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.63. 

"  Simply  and  lucidly  tells  what  a  railroad  company  is,  what  it  does, 
and  how  it  does  it.  Cannot  fail  to  be  of  use  to  the  voter.  Of  exceed- 
ing value  to  the  young  and  ambitious  in  railroad  service." — The 
Travelers'   Oihcial  Railway  Guide. 

"  The  most  important  contribution  to  its  branch  of  the  subject 
that  has  yet  been  made." — The  Dial. 

CARTER'S  WHEN  RAILROADS  WERE  NEW 

By  Charles  Frederick  Carter,  with  an  Introductory  Note  by 
Logan  G.  McPherson.  16  full-page  illustrations.  8vo. 
312  pp.    $2.00  net;  by  mail,  $2.16. 

A  history  of  the  every-day  difficulties,  discouragements  and 
triumphs  of  the  pioneers  who  built  and  ran  the  early  railroads. 
With  many  anecdotes  that  add  to  the  abundant  human  interest. 

"  Full  of  interest.  Besides  the  general  chapter  on  the  beginnings,  it 
gives  the  early  history  of  the  Erie,  the  Pennsylvania,  and  the  Balti- 
more and  Ohio,  of  the  Vanderbilt  lines,  the  first  Pacific  railroad,  and 
of  the  Canadian  Pacific.     Very  readable." — New  York  Sun. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (vii  '10)  NEW  YORK 


VIOLA  BURHANS'S  THE  CAVE- WOMAN 

A  novel  of  to-day  that  commences  in  a  cave  so  dark  that 
the  hero  can  see  nothing  of  the  woman  he  meets  there.  It 
ends  in  the  same  cave,  and  much  of  the  action  occurs  in  and 
near  a  neighboring  summer  hotel.  Robbery  and  mystery,  as 
well  as  love,  figure  in  the  plot  ($1.50). 

"  An  excellent  detective.  .  .  .  The  action  moves  quickly.  .  .  . 
Many  sidelights  fall  upon  newspaperdom,  and  the  author  tells  her 
story  cleverly." — Boston  Herald. 

"  The  most  delightful  of  grown-up  fairy-tales  of  modern  times.  .  .  . 
The  characters  .  .  .  are  finely  various  and  their  conversations 
piquantly  fresh  and  edifying  ...  a  dramatic  climax  of  great  strength 
and  beauty   .    .    .  clean,   clever,   captivating." — The   Boston   Common. 

"  A  very  charming,  very  elusive  and  quite  modern  young  lady  .  .  , 
a  very  delightful  story." — Bellman. 


M.  UTTLE'S  AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BURNING  BUSH 

A  novel  of  such  universal  human  appeal  that  locality  makes 
little  difference.  It  starts  as  a  satire  on  Scotch  divinity 
students,  tho  there  is  said  to  be  "not  a  word  of  preaching 
in  it"   ($1.50). 

"  Characters  drawn  with  a  sure  hand,  and  with  unusual  subtlety.  The 
story  broadens  and  strikes  deep  roots  into  human  nature  and  human 
life  ...  a  story  that  seems  as  if  it  might  have  been  made  out  of 
the  real  experiences  of  flesh  and  blood,  told  with  humor  that  is  some- 
times biting  and  sometimes  gentle,  and  with  very  great  humanness."— 
The  New  York  Times  Review. 


GERTRUDE  HALL'S  THE  UNKNOWN  QUANTITY 

A  young  widow  comes  to  New  York  to  investigate  various 

business  interests  of  her  late  husband,  and  finds  herself  face 

to  face  at  the  outset  with  the  two  most  vital  problems  of  a 

woman's  life  ($1.50). 

"  Her  people  are  alive.  They  linger  in  the  imagination." — Boston 
Transcript. 

"  Seeing  life  with  sincerity  and  truth  .  .  .  she  has  a  rather  big 
idea  for  a  working  basis." — The  Bookman. 

"  Retains  the  charmed  interest  .  .  .  the  quiet,  thoughtful  style,  and 
the  vivid,  if  restrained,  humanity.  The  tale  is  so  natural,  so  lifelike. 
.  .  .  The  author's  evident  faith  in  the  eternal  Tightness  of  things." — 
Chicago  Record-Herald. 


HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


NOTEWORTHY  AMERICAN  NOVELS 


SKID  PUFFER 

A  tale  of  the  Kankakee  Swamp  and  of  the  Desert.  Illustrated 
by  F.  T.  Richards  and  Victor  Perard,  and  from  photographs. 
($1.50.) 

"  The  tale  of  adventure  and  danger  is  as  good  as  is  the  study  of  vernacular 
humor.  .  .  .  Best  example  of  typically  native  fiction  that  .has  appeared  since 
•  Partners  of  Providence.'  "—N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  The  first  half  of  the  book  brimful  of  humor."— iV.  V.  Times. 

"  A  real  American  story,  rife  with  vernacular  humor.  .  .  .  Abe  Puflfer  (an 
American  Micawber)  and  Skid  (who  is  delightfully  reminiscent  of  Huckleberry 
Finn)  skip  merrily  through  lives  that  are  crowded  with  adventure,  love  and 
humor."— Leslie's  Weekly. 

"  A  new  classic  has  been  added  to  American  literature."— CAzca^o  /nier-Ocean. 

"Fresh  and  original  .  .  .  just  such  a  book  as  the  sportsman  will  delight  to 
stow  in  his  grip."— CAzca^o  Record- Herald. 

"  As  certain  to  be  an  American  classic  as  anything  ever  written  by  Mark 
Tvfain."— Boston  Common. 

"  Interest  sustained  to  the  end."— Boston  Advertiser. 

"  Full  of  life  and  fun  .  .  .  pictUTesque."—Fhiladelphia  Inquirer. 

"  Full  of  action  and  adventure."— ^cw  Francisco  Chronicle. 


E.  LAWRENCE  DUDLEY'S  THE  ISLE  OF  WHISPERS 

A  sea  story  of  the  good  old  sort.  The  scene  is  laid  on  a 
mysterious  island  off  the  New  England  coast.     ($1.50.) 

"  Reminds  one  forcibly  of  '  Treasure  Island  '  although  original  both  in  incident 
and  treatment.  .  .  .  He  keeps  the  attention  as  closely  expectant  to  his  bold 
sketching  as  does  his  great  prototype  to  his  more  finished  pictures— more 
finished,  but  hardly  stronger.  In  one  very  great  essential  Mr.  Dudley  has 
undertaken— and  successfully— a  more  ambitious  piece  of  melodrama  than  is 
'  Treasure  Island.'  His  terrors  and  agonies  are  less  of  the  concrete,  of  the  flesh. 
They  quite  minimize  death  and  physical  torture.  The  loss  of  esteem  and  love 
and  honor  are  the  more  overwhelming  disasters  that  threaten."— Hartford 
Courant. 

"  A  most  satisfactory  tale.  .  .  .  Handled  with  such  an  ingeniously  novel  twist 
that  the  result  is  something  worth  reading  to  the  end.  ...  A  young  woman- 
all  that  such  a  young  woman  ought  to  be  in  a  story  of  this  kind."— A^<?z</  Vork 
Tribune. 

"Delicious  spinal  shivers  .  .  .  straightforward,  convincing  style.  .  .  .  The 
story  moves  along  rapidly  and  with  a  certain  well-bred  dash  ...  all  incident 
and  excitement."— A^^zf  York  Times  Review. 


HENRY      HOLT      AND      COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD'S 
THE  EDUCATION  OF  UNCLE  PAUL 

By  the  author  of  "John  Silence."    i2mo. 

How  Uncle  Paul,  a  bachelor  of  forty-five,  returns  to  England 
after  years  spent  in  the  Canadian  woods.  How  his  nephews  and 
nieces  taught  him  many  things,  and  Nixie  led  him  to  "the  crack 
between  yesterday  and  to-morrow,"  a  book  full  of  sympathy 
with  Nature,  poetic  feeling,  and  a  cheery  optimism.  One  of 
the  best-known  American  critics  who  saw  the  advance  sheets 
writes,  "  There  is  a  mixture  of  Wordsworth's  *  Ode  *  and  *  Peter 
Pan'  in  the  book." 

The  Spectator  (London):  "Marked  by  a  sense  of  beauty  and  a  wealth  of 
poetic  invetAion.  .  .  .  Under  Uncle  Paul's  burly  exterior  there  is  the  mind  of  a 
mystic,  a  student  of  Blake,  and  a  nature-worshipper.  .  .  .  Uncle  Paul,  fearful 
of  being  misunderstood,  plays  the  part  of  the  elderly  uncle.  .  .  .  But  the 
children  .  .  .  penetrate  his  self-protective  armour.  .  .  .  Nixie,  who  in- 
herits her  strange  gifts  from  her  father,  a  poet  and  visionary,  is  the  high  priest- 
ess of  these  blameless  mysteries,  and  under  her  guidance  Uncle  Paul,  her 
little  brother  and  sister,  and  their  pet  dogs  and  cats,  escape  .to  the  heart  of 
cloudland,  to  the  birthplace  of  the  winds,  and  to  other  wonderful  enchanted 
regions  where  time  is  not  and  joy  is  unceasing.  .  .  .  There  is  humour,  too, 
in  the  way  in  which  Uncle  Paul  leads  his  double  Hfe  ...  an  uncommon 
book.  Mr.  Blackwood  specialises  in  recondite  experiences  and  emotions,  but 
he  can  draw  ordinary  people  with  a  sure  hand,  and  he  has  an  extraordinarily 
acute  appreciation  of  the  mystery,  the  affectation,  and  the  aloofness  of  cats. 
We  are  not  at  all  sure  that '  Mrs.  Tompkyns  '  is  not  the  most  wonderful  person 
in  the  book." 


SARAH  M.  H.  GARDNER'S   QUAKER  IDYLS 

Enlarged  Edition.     i6mo,  $i.oo  net. 

Original,  sometimes  pathetic,  and  often  humorous  character 
sketches. 

These  little  tales  portray  The  Friends  in  all  their  purity  and 
simplicity. 

The  present  edition  is  the  sixth.  The  titles  of  the  earlier 
idyls  are:  "Twelfth  Street  Meeting,"  "A  Quaker  Wedding," 
**  Two  Gentlewomen,"  "  Our  Little  Neighbors,"  "  Pamelia  Tewks- 
bury's  Courtship,"  "Some  Antebellum  Letters  from  a  Quaker 
Girl,"  "Uncle  Joseph,"  and  "My  Grandame's  Secret." 

The  new  idyls  are  called:  "A  Homely  Tragedy"  and  "An 
Unconscious  Disciple  of  Thespis." 

♦♦♦  If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publishers  will  send,  from 
time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY      HOLT     AND      COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


MRS.  E.  L.  VOYNICH'S  THE  GADFLY 

An  intense  romance  of  the  Italian  rising  against  the  Austrians 
early  in  the  nineteenth  century.     Twenty-first  printing.     $1.25^ 

"  One  of  the  most  powerful  novels  of  the  decade."— ^eu>  York  Tribune. 

ANTHONY  HOPE'S  THE  PRISONER  OF  ZENDA 

Being  the  history  of  three  months  in  the  life  of  an  English 
gentleman.  Illustrated  by  C.  D.  Gibson.  Fifty-first  printing. 
$1.50. 

ANTHONY  HOPE'S  RUPERT  OF  HENTZAU 

A  sequel  to  *'  The  Prisoner  of  Zenda."  Illustrated  by  C.  D. 
Gibson.     Twenty-first  printing.     $1.50. 

These  stirring  romances  established  a  new  vogue  in  fiction  and 
are  among  the  most  widely-read  novels.  Each  has  been  success- 
fully dramatized. 

C.  N.  AND  A.  M.  WILLIAMSON'S  THE   UGHTNING 
CONDUCTOR 

New  illustrated  edition.     Twenty-first  printing.     $1.50. 

A  humorous  love  story  of  a  beautiful  American  and  a  gallant 
Englishman  who  stoops  to  conquer.  Two  almost  human  auto- 
mobiles play  prominent  parts.  There  are  picturesque  scenes  in 
Provence,  Spain  and  Italy. 

"  Altogether  the  best  automobile  story  of  which  we  have  knowledge,  and 
might  serve  almost  as  a  guide-book  for  highway  travel  ft-om  Paris  to  Sicily.'* 
— Atlantic  Monthly. 

C.  N.  AND   A.  M.  WILUAMSON'S  THE  PRINCESS 
PASSES 

Illustrated  by  Edward  Penfield.     Eighth  printing.    $1.50. 

**  The  authors  have  duplicated  their  success  with  'The  Lightning  Con- 
ductor.'   .    .    .    Unusually  absorbing."— Boston  Transcript. 

D.  D.  WELLS*  HER  LADYSHIP'S  ELEPHANT 

This  humorous  Anglo-American  tale  made  an  instantaneous 
hit.     Eighteenth  printing.    $1.25. 

*'  He  is  probably  funny  because  he  cannot  help  it.  .  .  .  Must  consent 
to  be  regarded  as  a  benefactor  of  his  kind  without  responsibility."- r/i« 
Nation. 

A  If  the  reader  will  send  his  name  and  address,  the  publishers  vrill  send« 
from  time  to  time,  information  regarding  their  new  books. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (X-'07)  KXW  YORK 


GRANT  SHOWERMAN'S  WITH  THE  PROFESSOR 

$1.50  net;  by  mail,  $1.62. 
A  Prelude  on  Pessimism;  The  Strange  Case  of  Dr. 
Scholarship  and  Mr.  Homo;  Mud  and  Nails;  The  Professor 
Asks  for  More;  A  Desperate  Situation;  The  Professor  Re- 
cants; The  Professor  Travels  in  the  Realms  of  Gold;  A 
Goodly  Apple  Rotten  at  the  Heart ;  The  Professor  Laughs  at 
Education ;  The  Professor  Misses  the  Sermon ;  The  Professor 
Spends  an  Evening  Out;  Midnight  on  the  Roof-Garden. 

"  Wit  not  too  erudite,  and  fancy  not  too  riotous  .  .  .  delightful 
fooling  (and  some  seriousness).  ...  A  sort  of  cheerful  derision,  or 
gleeful  sarcasm,  or  good-humored  pessimism.  .  .  .  But  there's  many 
a  serious  word  said  in  all  this  jest;  and  it  is  so  well  said,  with  so  apt 
and  evidently  unstudied  employment  of  classic  quotation  and  neat 
literary  allusion,  that  the  lesson  of  the  book,  so  far  as  it  has  a  lesson, 
is  learned  without  sense  of  effort  or  anything  but  entertainment  on  the 
reader's  part." — The  Dial.      (Entire   notice   on   application.) 

"  A  witty  and  clear-sighted  discussion  of  some  American  Educa- 
tional and  Social  problems.  .  .  .  May  be  commended  to  all  who  have 
to  do  with  education.  True  idealism  has  found  a  genial  and  eloquent 
advocate." — The  SpringHeld  Republican. 

HENRY  A.  BEERS'S   THE  WAYS  OF  YALE 

Still  further  enlarged  edition.  i6mo.  $1.20  net;  by  mail,  $1.28. 
This  further  enlarged  edition  is  the  eighth  of  Professor 
Beers'  book  that  has  become  a  contemporary  classic.  The  ad- 
ditions are  Greek,  A  College  Antiquary,  The  Rout  of  the 
Monodramatist,  and  in  verse  A  Shades,  In  Latin  Prose  Recita- 
tion, Triennial  Pome,  and  Nunc  Dimittis.  But  a  few  of  the 
good  things  from  earlier  editions  are  Jubilee  Ode,  Chums, 
Eating  Clubs,  Leaves  from  the  Diary  of  an  Undergraduate, 
Biftek  aux  Champignons,  The  Springald  and  the  Cauda  Galli, 
The  Third  Stage  of  Discipline,  A  Merry  Ballad  of  Three 
Sophomores  and  a  Toll  Woman,  Lost  Letters  of  the  Greek 
Alphabet,  Ivy  Ode  (Class  Day,  1869)  and  The  New  Yale. 
1871. 

"  Bits  of  reminiscence,  stories,  verses,  as  delightful  in  their  way 
as  anything  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  of  Harvard." — New  York  Sun. 

LA  MONTE  and  MENCKEN'S  MEN  VS.  THE  MAN 

Letters    for   and   against   Socialism.     By   Robert   Rives   La 

Month,  Socialist  and  editor  of  The  Call  (New  York),  and 

Henry  Louis  Mencken,   Individualist,  of  the  Baltimore 

Sun.    $1.35  net;  by  mail,  $1.45. 

"  The  pros  and  cons  of   Socialism   are  herein  very  clearly  set   forth 

.    .    .   clear  and  comprehensive  .    .    .   it  is  to  be  strongly  recommended 

...   a    splendid    exposition    of    the    strength    and    weaknesses    of    a 

movement  which  is  rapidly  assuming  gigantic  proportions  in  the  scheme 

of  things  social." — Boston  Transcript. 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  (vii  '10)  NEW  YORK 


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